Out of Mind, Out of Sight
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Sherlock is known for his intelligence and always has complete control over his mind. What happens when he starts to lose it? Post TFP.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 **I tried to be as medically accurate as possible, but if it's not perfect, I don't really care. Just pretend it's accurate.**

 **And, yes, I know the saying is "out of sight, out of mind," but because of what the story is about, I switched it around.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat at his usual bench in the lab of St. Bart's Hospital, inspecting the samples at the microscope. New Scotland Yard had given him this case this morning, and identifying the clues in the soil sample was key to the whole thing. The only problem was that this final compound was eluding him.

"What are you?" Sherlock muttered in frustration as he grabbed another slide and placed it on the microscope. "Molly, pass the barium chloride."

After a moment of no response, he glanced up to see that he was alone in the lab.

 _Ah, yes, they went for coffee._

Sherlock stood and moved to the cabinet along the wall, retrieving the barium chloride himself. He was still getting used to being left alone more and more in the morgue and lab, courtesy of the access badge Bart's had _finally_ granted him.

Lots of things had changed in his favor the last several months. St. Bart's Hospital now allowed him unlimited access to their facilities—so long as he reported all chemicals and supplies used to pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper. Scotland Yard had given him his own badge proclaiming him a Consulting Detective in their employ. A publishing company offered his former flatmate Dr. John Watson a hefty sum to write a biography of their lives and cases. His brother Mycroft had practically dragged him to his knighting ceremony, insisting that this time, the Queen wouldn't take "no" for an answer (although, Sherlock still refused to let anyone call him "Sir Sherlock Holmes"). Apparently, people are grateful when you rid their country of a criminal mastermind back from the dead—even if said mastermind had only turned out to be Sherlock's criminally insane sister Eurus.

It had been a year since that horrible day at Sherrinford. John and his daughter Rosie had moved back into 221B Baker Street not long after until they could find a place of their own close by. John and Sherlock had agreed that it was best to be close to Baker Street so Mrs. Hudson could babysit when they got called away on cases. Sherlock had immediately set to work and, a few months later, was able to surprise John one morning with a remodeled, cleaned and furnished 221C. John had been speechless, insisting that it was too much, but Sherlock merely told him to think of it as a "thank you" for everything John had done and been through for him over the years. John had accepted and moved straight in, although he was apt to hang around the sitting room of 221B more often than his own.

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was even being civil with him. Well…at least she tried to be civil; some habits ran too deep. But after the story of Eurus and Victor Trevor had eventually slipped its way through the Yard, it was only natural that the officers found it possible to put up with Sherlock's eccentric behavior and manners now that they knew the reason for them. Donovan had even quit calling him "Freak."

It didn't seem possible to have this much in his life going well, especially now that—

"Ah!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Yes!"

"You got it?"

Sherlock glanced up to see that John and Molly had entered while he had been engrossed in his musings and investigation.

"It was the baker," Sherlock told them, springing up from his seat. "It was right in front of us the whole time!" He tore over to a bench, pulling his greatcoat on and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

John downed the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. "See you later, Molly."

"Come on, John!" Sherlock urged as he tore out the door. "He could be destroying evidence as we speak!"

John followed after Sherlock, who made it halfway down the hall before abruptly turning back around and heading for the lab again. He stepped through the doors and over to Molly, framing her face in his hands and giving her a kiss.

"Enjoy your medical conference," Sherlock told her. "I'll miss you."

Molly gave him another kiss. "I'll be home in a week."

"I know, a whole week," Sherlock mock-whined, giving her another kiss.

"I'll miss you, too," Molly told him.

Sherlock smiled down at her, just holding her in his arms.

"Sherlock," said Molly.

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock.

"The baker," said Molly.

Sherlock's eyes sharpened as his brows shot up. "The baker!" He turned towards the doors. "John!" He burst through them to find John leaning against the corridor wall, his arms crossed and a smirk in place.

John followed after Sherlock as they hurried off to solve the case.

* * *

Sherlock stood at the window of the sitting room in 221B Baker Street, playing his violin. Molly had boarded her flight an hour ago, and Sherlock hadn't seen her for seven hours now. Usually, he did just fine going all day without seeing her while she was at work, because he knew he only had to occupy his frenetic mind for another six, three, two hours before he saw her again. Now, he knew she wouldn't be home for a week. For whatever reason, he found that Molly's presence was able to calm his mind in a way that no drug had ever been able to. It was probably something to do with being in a "relationship," or some other such nonsense. Whatever the reason, it just gave him one more reason to love Molly.

Sherlock lowered his bow, passed it over to his left hand at the neck of the violin, picked up a pencil to jot down a couple more notes and took the bow back into his right hand.

"Composing?"

Sherlock set his bow to the strings as he answered John. "Yes."

"It sounds very different," said John.

"It's for a special occasion," Sherlock told him.

"Oh, really?" asked John, thinking back to the last time Sherlock had composed a song for a special occasion: his wedding. He felt a pang in his heart at the thought of Mary, his late wife.

"Yes," said Sherlock, jotting down several more notes.

John waited for a moment, but nothing more was said. "What's the occasion?"

Sherlock tapped his sheet music with his pencil and then set it down. "See for yourself." He picked his bow back up and started playing.

John stepped forward, looking down at the paper on the stand. There was no title, but there was a cypher written across the top of the page. According to the cypher, each note corresponded to a different letter of the alphabet. The only part of the song that seemed to be written with any finality was the bottom line, so John took a moment to match those notes to the cypher. When he got to the end, he frowned and tried again.

 _That can't be right._

But, sure enough, when John got to the end, the last line of the song still spelled out: Will you marry me.

John looked over at Sherlock, staring at him for a moment. "This is a marriage proposal."

"Yes," said Sherlock without breaking rhythm.

"You're asking Molly to marry you," stated John.

"Obviously," muttered Sherlock.

"You're asking Molly to marry you…with a musical cypher," said John.

Sherlock paused and glanced over at him, an uncertain look on his face. "Not good?"

John shook his head. "No, no, it's…good, actually. It suits you. And something tells me Molly will love it."

Sherlock nodded and went back to playing before jotting a few more notes down.

"Do you have a ring yet?" asked John, stepping over to sit down in his armchair.

"That was something I was hoping my best man could help me with," said Sherlock, turning to look at John. "Relationships aren't exactly my area."

"You want me to be best man?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. "How many best friends do you think I have?"

John chuckled, shaking his head. "That's true. Thanks, mate. When did you want to go for rings?"

"Tomorrow," said Sherlock, turning back to his music.

"Perfect," said John just as a knock sounded at the door.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade took a step inside the open doorway. "Am I interrupting?"

"Always," muttered Sherlock as he made another note on the sheet.

John waved his hand at Sherlock as he stood. "Ignore him. He's…thinking." He approached the inspector. "What can we do for you?"

Lestrade held up the file in his hand. "Got a case for you."

"Later," grumbled Sherlock, putting his bow back to the strings. "This is important."

Lestrade's brows came together over his eyes. "More important than a case?" He looked to John for answers.

"For once, yes," said John. "It's complicated. But maybe we can pry him away?" He gave the inspector an encouraging nod to Sherlock.

Lestrade looked back at the detective. "We _really_ need your help on this one."

"Don't you always?" muttered Sherlock, laying his bow aside to scratch a few more notes onto the page.

"It's murder," said Lestrade. "And we can't get one bit of evidence from the scene."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned towards them. "You never can."

"Come on, you can take a break," John told him. "I mean, it would be a shame if the Queen were to find out that the consulting detective she knighted weren't doing his job."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John before setting the violin and bow on his armchair. "This is why I always turned down knighthoods." He stomped through towards his bedroom.

Lestrade gestured towards the music stand. "So…more important than a case?"

John smiled and walked over to the stand, taking the music sheet and tucking it under Sherlock's laptop. "You'll find out in a week, I imagine."

"Oh, come on," groaned Lestrade.

"Sorry," laughed John.

Sherlock came back into the room, his dressing gown replaced by his suit jacket. He grabbed his coat and scarf. "Let's get this over with."

He led them out down the stairs towards this "no evidence whatsoever" crime scene. The Yard does love to exaggerate their ineptness, don't they?

* * *

Sherlock stared down at the body, his eyes striving to draw some clue from it, but he couldn't see anything. It seemed as though Lestrade was not being incompetent; there was literally no evidence.

"This is impossible…" muttered Sherlock, turning to take in the entire room.

"I told you," said Lestrade by the door.

"You always say that," Sherlock bit off. "This is…" he gestured around at the room and the body. "Every bit of evidence has been either cleaned up or obscured. This was done by a professional. It's as though _I_ killed this woman."

Donovan paused and looked up at him in interest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, let's not go down _that_ road again, Donovan." He knelt on one side of the body. "John."

John stepped over and knelt on the other side of the woman, beginning his examination.

"The killer must be either an officer or forensic technician," said Sherlock, going over the body once more with his pocket magnifier. "Someone who knew exactly what clues would be found that would lead back to him." He straightened up, staring into the room in thought. "Or perhaps which clues _I_ would find." He started looking around the room once again with narrowed eyes.

"You're saying the killer figured we would call you and knew the kind of clues you'd pick up on?" asked Lestrade.

"Exactly…" muttered Sherlock, still looking around. "A murderer with intellect." He smirked. "Finally."

"You know, we have come up against intelligent murderers before," John reminded him as he looked up from his examination. "Moriarty, Magnussen, Culverton Smith, Eurus. Maybe don't look quite so happy about it, yeah?"

"Magnussen never killed anyone," Sherlock replied.

"He as good as," said John, glancing pointedly down towards Sherlock's chest, where he had been shot in the course of taking down Magnussen.

"What have you found?" asked Sherlock.

John glanced up at him with a sigh. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" asked Sherlock, brows raised.

"Not one single physical clue," said John. "I can't find anything wrong with her. Unless she had a sudden heart attack—which her physical appearance does not suggest at all—it's as if she just dropped dead."

"We'll have to wait for the autopsy," muttered Sherlock. "Do you have time of death, at least?"

"Based on the level of rigor mortis and lividity, I'd put it at some time between five and seven hours ago," answered John.

Sherlock stood and immediately turned to Lestrade. "Don't let anyone near this case unless they have an alibi for that time."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll seal this building off." He headed out the door.

"What, no 'Get out. You're a suspect'?" asked Donovan.

"Don't be ridiculous," muttered Sherlock, meticulously searching the room yet again. "A crime scene like this would have required far more intelligence than you're capable of."

John closed his eyes before looking up at Donovan. "He doesn't mean that you're stupid." He immediately shot Sherlock a glare as the other turned to him to protest that statement. "He **doesn't**." He looked back at Donovan. "He just means that this killer has a very above-average intelligence."

Sherlock, who had gone back to his search, was now groaning in frustration. "There's nothing here!"

"Should we tell them to take the body for the autopsy, then?" asked John.

Sherlock stared down at the body, thinking. He then waved a hand dismissively. "Very well."

* * *

After Lestrade had confirmed that they had alibis for the time of death, the two forensic technicians were allowed to load the body in a bag, Sherlock watching closely the whole time for anything that might show itself. He then examined the space where the body had lain but could find no more clues there either. Altogether, it was the longest Sherlock had ever spent at an actual crime scene.

The two of them were now back at Baker Street, John watching from his armchair as Sherlock flitted about in one of his dressing gowns in front of the wall full of photographs he had confiscated from the crime scene.

"It doesn't make any sense," said Sherlock. "How could the killer have left _no_ evidence? Even cleaning up a scene should leave clues. There's nothing here!"

"Has Lestrade come up with any suspects?" asked John.

Sherlock pulled his mobile out and waved it in his hand as he spoke. "Of the officers not on duty at the time, only five had solid alibis with witnesses."

"Well, that's something," said John.

"Leaving eighteen to investigate," said Sherlock. "Not to mention any private individual with the necessary skill set _not_ employed by Scotland Yard. It could be anyone! This case is so aimless!"

John breathed out a long-suffering sigh. "Well, shall we get started, then? At least eliminate some police officers?"

Sherlock sighed. "Very well." He headed off to his room to trade his dressing gown for a jacket.

* * *

Lestrade followed Sherlock towards a block of flats, John right beside him. "Brian Spinner. Says he was at the movies."

They came to a stop at the door, and Sherlock rang the bell.

"Ninth time's the charm, right?" muttered John beside Lestrade.

The speaker next to the door burst to life. "Yes?"

"Brian, it's Greg," said Lestrade.

"Oh, right, come on in," said Brian's voice.

The door buzzed, and Sherlock opened it, leading the three of them inside. They reached the correct flat and knocked.

Brian opened the door and ushered them inside. "Hey, Sherlock, John. Good to see you."

"You, too," said John, stepping over to the sofa with Lestrade and sitting down.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was moving around the room, taking in whatever clues he could find.

Photograph of Spinner and an older woman on the mantel.

 _She shares the same pointed nose and shape of the jaw. Family member, most likely mother. Displays photo of himself and his mother in the sitting room. Fond of her._

Shelves of books containing mostly history and classic literature.

 _An intellectual. A large collection of Dickens, Hemingway and Austen. Prefers romanticized stories. History books about the_ Titanic _, Alan Turing, Princess Diana. Nothing that would suggest murderous tendencies._

Flattened cushion on armchair, white hairs matted down on it.

 _Owns a cat. Pet owners are statistically less likely to meticulously plan out a murder to this degree._

Layer of dust on mantel. Crumbs and smudges on the dining table.

 _Doesn't clean very well or—more likely—doesn't care how clean his flat is. If it's the former, he's less likely to be the killer._

Crinkled ticket stubs on the table by the door next to keys and a wallet. Credit card number on ticket receipt matches credit card in wallet.

 _Confirmed. Spinner was at the movies. Not the murderer._

Sherlock began to turn to tell John and Lestrade this when another thought halted him.

 _What if he only_ _ **wanted**_ _you to see this?_

Sherlock frowned and looked back at the clues he had found. It was true; if this criminal was intelligent enough to clean up the clues at a crime scene, he would be intelligent enough to leave them as well. He could very well have planted every bit of evidence Sherlock was seeing.

Sherlock gave his head a little shake. _No. Stop it. You've already deduced he isn't the killer._

 _But_ _ **have**_ _you?_

If the killer was as intelligent as Moriarty, then why couldn't he lay a false trail? The photo on the mantel looked to be a fairly recent one. It could have been taken as he planned it all out. He could have purchased the movie ticket and snuck back out to kill the victim. Perhaps he had been dirtying the flat for several days to make it appear that he couldn't clean. He read a lot, which meant he was intelligent. Perhaps he was smart enough to pull it off.

 _But how could I know for sure?_ Sherlock stared down at the dust on the mantel, momentarily lost. _If this man is able to leave clues whenever and however he wants, how can I possibly—_

"Sherlock."

Sherlock startled slightly, turning quickly towards the room as he yanked himself from his thoughts. John Lestrade and Spinner were all looking at him expectantly.

"Got anything?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock's brows drew together as he looked back at the bookshelf and mantel. _What the hell just happened?_

His thoughts had begun to careen off, throwing up a bunch of "what-if" questions. He _never_ asked, "what if?" He always trusted the evidence and his deductions, because 99.99% of the time, they were correct. Why was his mind suddenly doubting itself?

"Sherlock?" came John's concerned tone.

Sherlock pulled in a breath as he turned to them once again, plastering on a smile for Spinner's benefit. "Well, I think I've got all I need. John." He strode towards the door and walked out onto the landing, moving several paces down the hall before stopping and placing his palms together in front of him to think.

 _What is it? What is it?_ _ **What?!**_

"Sherlock," said John from behind him. "You didn't say any of your deductions like you did with the last eight suspects we've looked at. Is something wrong?"

"Is Spinner the killer?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock let out a long breath. "I don't know."

There was a stunned silence in the hallway after that sentence.

"What?" John finally asked.

Sherlock lowered his hands and turned towards them. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" asked John.

"It occurred to me: what if the killer is not only cleaning up clues but leaving them as well?" said Sherlock. "What if he's leaving evidence to prove his innocence, or to make someone else look guilty? How can we trust anything we find? What if we rule out a suspect because of an apparent alibi, but it's all just a smokescreen?"

"Hey," said John, stepping towards him a little with his hands out. He frowned at him. "What is this? You never second-guess yourself like this."

Sherlock took a breath, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. Maybe it's the lack of evidence. My Work runs on evidence."

"Or maybe this killer's level of intelligence reminds you of someone," said John. "Like Eurus."

Sherlock's mind flinched at the idea as he frowned incredulously at John. "So, my mind is doubting itself by association? Ridiculous." He immediately turned and left the building.

It had to be the lack of evidence. He had never had a crime completely void of clues, and it was leaving him reeling. That was it; of course it was. He tried to ignore the gut instinct nagging at him, saying that something was wrong. He had never relied on gut instinct—horrible method of decision making—but had always trusted his mind.

But then again, hadn't he himself once said that instinct was simply data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sherlock stood at the counter, his fingers fidgeting rapidly in front of him. "I don't like this. We shouldn't be here."

John turned towards him. "Look, you yourself said there was nothing to go on for now, so we might as well get this done. After all, this case could take all week."

Sherlock considered this for a moment before nodding. "Right. Which one should I get, then?"

John looked down at the jewelry in the glass counter in front of them. "Do what I did: which one can you picture her face when you propose?"

Sherlock looked over at him with narrowed eyes.

"Right, stupid question for you," muttered John. "Erm…I guess, get the one that will look best on her. Match her skin tone or something."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Match her skin tone?"

"I don't know," said John, waving his hands. "Just take a look until you feel you have the right one. This is a decision you have to make with your heart, not your head."

A perfect solution, considering he wasn't too sure about his head at the moment. Ever since yesterday evening, his mind had not stopped second-guessing itself. It was maddening. And he was starting to get distracted by random thoughts. Stupid no-clue crime scene.

Sherlock made his way around the store, inspecting each ring he saw. Most of them looked perfectly lovely, but nothing jumped out at him. This one here had a diamond the size of a marble—too extravagant for Molly's simple tastes. This one had stones covering almost every inch of the band—Molly would never be comfortable wearing something so expensive. This one was nothing but a gold band—Molly deserved more than just a band.

Sherlock's eyes darted back to the corner of the case he was standing in front of. Seated in one of the slots in the display was a silver band with a diamond in the center with one yellow sapphire on each side of it. Those yellow stones brought forth the image of Molly in a sunny yellow dress with a yellow bow in her hair as she danced with their friends at John's wedding reception. Molly with a yellow flower pinned in her hair as she helped Sherlock in the lab. Molly with a yellow blouse that she had bought on a whim and how she brightened when Sherlock had told her she was beautiful. Molly and how her smile always lit up the room like a ray of sunshine.

Sherlock looked up at the sales associate looking through her inventory some distance away. "I'd like to see this one."

The woman walked over as Sherlock gestured to the ring for her. She unlocked the case and pulled the ring out, handing it over. "A 1.53 carat cushion-cut yellow sapphire set between two 0.09 carat brilliant-cut diamonds. The ring is hand-crafted in 925 sterling silver and plated with Rhodium to keep the shine and prevent tarnish."

Sherlock looked down at the ring in his fingers, a warmth spreading in his chest that he had come to associate with Molly. "I'll take it." He handed the ring back so the woman could ring him up.

"Nice choice," John told him. "It suits her."

"No," said Sherlock, watching the jeweler place the ring in a velvet box. "It completes her."

John rolled his eyes. "And you called _me_ the romantic."

* * *

Sherlock and John made their way down the street, the shop having only been a few streets over from Baker Street.

John inspected the ring in its box. "She's really going to love this. You proposing when she gets back?" He closed the box and handed it back into Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Taking her to dinner after her flight," Sherlock told him.

"And she has no clue?" asked John.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "Unlike some people, _I_ can keep a secret."

"Hey, I can keep a secret," John came back, offended. "I never told anyone you were back from the dead."

"No, you only screamed it to the whole shop," said Sherlock.

"That was your fault for not warning me you were back before you showed up," John told him.

"And lose the element of surprise?" said Sherlock with a smirk. "That was half the fun."

"I never told you Irene Adler was dead, even though she really wasn't," said John.

"Oh, please, it was written all over your face and tone of voice," Sherlock shot back.

"You never got me to tell you my middle name," said John.

"But you left your birth certificate easily acceptable to a determined individual," said Sherlock.

"Oh, come on!" said John. "All of those are either your fault or could only be solved by you. They don't count."

"On the contrary," said Sherlock. "You can only truly keep a secret if you can keep it from me. So far, you are not quite up to par."

"Oh, I beg to differ," said John.

Sherlock glanced over to see a mischievous smirk on his friend's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John looked over at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock, intrigued. "What don't I know?"

"Oh, but then I would be a horrible secret-keeper," said John with a smug smile. "We wouldn't want that."

"Fine, you excel at keeping secrets," said Sherlock. "What is it?"

John stopped and turned to face him, obviously enjoying the moment. "My family is distantly related to the Royal Family."

Sherlock was fairly certain his jaw had dropped. How, with Mycroft's connections in the government and in Buckingham, had he never come across this information? It was obvious he himself didn't know; he never would have crudely "kidnapped" John all those times if he knew John was connected to the Queen, however indirectly.

"Not by blood," John told him. "One of their distant cousins is married to one of my distant cousins. Only for the last ten years or so."

"And now, you've just given that secret away," Sherlock told him.

"Well, I didn't want to miss the look on your face," said John, heading off once more. "That was half the fun."

Sherlock caught up to him. "Does anyone know?"

"There was a bit of press after the wedding, but I guess the bride wasn't as prominent a member of the Royal Family for them to care for very long," John told him.

Sherlock cocked his head slightly in approval. "Well, I have to say, John. You've done the impossible. Well done." He stopped after a moment when he realized John was no longer with him. He turned to see John several paces back, frowning at him.

"What did you say?" asked John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dramatics. "You don't have to look so shocked. I am capable of a compliment."

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious," said John, stepping closer. "What did you say?"

Sherlock frowned. "Well done."

John shook his head. "No, you didn't. You said, 'Pass the biscuits.'"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "No, I didn't."

"Trust me, you did," said John, narrowing his eyes as he went into doctor mode. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Two nights ago," Sherlock told him.

John slowly shook his head. "You've gone longer before… Any strange symptoms?"

"For God's sake, I'm fine!" said Sherlock, turning and storming off. "I'm distracted, not sick! Impossible crime scene, remember?"

John caught up to him. "Still, maybe you should get a few hours' sleep."

Sherlock's phone began ringing, and John groaned next to him.

Sherlock pulled his phone out, answering it. "Lestrade."

"Hey, can you come down to the Yard?" said Lestrade.

Sherlock weaved towards the street, raising his other hand to hail a cab. "On our way." He hung up as they got into the taxi that had pulled up.

* * *

"What have you found?" asked Sherlock as he stepped into Lestrade's office.

"The results came back from the autopsy," said Lestrade, tossing a file in front of them on his desk. "Poison. Which means our murderer didn't necessarily have to be there when the victim died."

John sighed. "There goes everyone's alibis."

"What kind of poison?" asked Sherlock.

"Prolixin," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned. "An antipsychotic. Must have been giving it to the victim for weeks."

"Antipsychotics can kill?" said Lestrade.

"You can overdose on anything given the right amount," said Sherlock. "The victim would have been shut up in that room."

"Why?" asked Lestrade.

"To prevent hospitalization," explained Sherlock. "Antipsychotics, when given to healthy individuals, can cause psychosis, especially in large doses."

"Actually, antipsychotics have been known to cause psychosis sometimes," said John.

Sherlock's head snapped over to him with a frown. "That's what I just said."

John narrowed his eyes. "You said, 'To poison him with another drug to cause psychosis.'"

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration. What was wrong with John? He knew **exactly** what he had said, and it certainly wasn't that!

 _Moriarty could—_

 _The bugs are—_

— _he's here to—_

 _Watch for—_

 _You can't—_

 _STOP IT!_ Sherlock inwardly yelled as he shook his head. He looked up at John. "The walls!"

John's frown increased. "What walls?"

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor. _Why did I say that?_ "I don't know."

"What's going on?" asked Lestrade.

Shaking his head in exasperation, John looked at Lestrade. "He just needs sleep, which he refuses to admit."

"I am fine," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, you're starting to confuse _yourself_!" said John. "Just go home and get some sleep. You know you're no good to the case like this."

It was a sign of how tired or exhausted or whatever he was that John's idea didn't immediately repulse him. He stared at John for a moment before looking at Lestrade. "Our suspect is most likely a medical professional, possibly with a background in forensics." He then turned and headed out of Scotland Yard.

* * *

Sherlock startled awake, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He looked all around the room he was in until he recognized his bedroom. He released his breath as he collapsed back onto the mattress. After a moment, he raised his head and held it in front of himself, watching the tremors shake it. He let his hand fall to the blankets.

It had been a long time since he'd had a nightmare. This one had featured a half-burned Moriarty and a decaying Eurus holding Molly down as they drowned her and then cut her beating heart out of her chest as she screamed. Usually, his dreams were more lucid, but this one had been more disjointed and fantastical.

 _What's happening to me?_

Knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, Sherlock snatched his dressing gown from the foot of the bed and pulled it on, striding out his door to the sitting room. _Might as well do_ _ **something**_ _productive._

He picked up his violin and began the process of writing his proposal song, trying to say everything in his music. And finally, he was reaching the last stanza.

"How long have you been up?"

Sherlock turned to see John in the doorway, coffee in hand. "John?" He glanced back at the windows to see daylight. "What time is it?"

"Seven," John replied, sitting in his armchair. "Did you even sleep at all?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment. "Nightmare." He played a few more notes and jotted them down.

"Do you feel better this morning?" asked John.

"I believe so," said Sherlock.

"Good," said John. "Had me worried a bit there." He took another sip of coffee and put it on the table next to his chair. "I'm going to check on Rosie. She should be waking up soon." He stood and left the flat, heading down the stairs.

Sherlock jotted down the last few notes and played through the piece on the violin. It was really quite beautiful.

" _Look at the violin."_

" _I never had a best friend."_

" _The next one isn't going to be so easy."_

" _If you want to speak to the girl again, earn yourself some phone time!"_

" _You don't want me to drown another one of your pets, do you?"_

" _I that am lost, oh, who will find me—"_

"Shut up!" hissed Sherlock as his hands went to his head, covering his ears to block out Eurus' voice.

After a moment, his mind quieted, and he lowered his hands. He had let go of the violin and bow when he had grabbed his head, and they lay on the floor, the violin cracked along the lower bout.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered, crouching to pick up the violin. He would have to get it fixed before Molly came home. At least he had gotten her song composed.

 _What in the hell is wrong with me?_

Because it was clear now that something was indeed wrong. And if he wasn't careful, he would get taken to a hospital, where the stupid doctors would diagnose him with some mental disease and ship him off to a psych ward. No, no, that would never do. He would have to figure this out himself. It couldn't be a coincidence that he was investigating a murder by antipsychotic and then his mind starts losing itself. There was something going on here. He just couldn't figure it out.

"Oh, what happened?" asked Mrs. Hudson as she stepped in with the morning tea.

"Slipped," said Sherlock, setting the violin on his armchair and retrieving the bow to place next to it.

He took his cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson, determined to hide whatever was wrong with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sherlock stared down at the blood sample on the slide he was looking at on the microscope. He had been staring at the same sample for the last thirty minutes, unable to move on. He could see that something was wrong; this wasn't what a normal blood sample looked like. Right?

Sherlock sat back from his microscope. It was getting worse. Now, he couldn't even remember basic biology.

For the last two days, his mental slip-ups had gotten harder and harder to hide. His mind—while telling him he was saying one thing—would substitute other words and phrases, and it had gotten to the point where he hardly talked to anyone, afraid he would spout nonsense. Thoughts and memories continued to jump out at him, thoroughly disrupting whatever he would be doing or thinking at the moment. He was also starting to get confused; John had pointed out a clue in the lab that he had somehow completely missed. Someone had to be drugging him. He had stopped eating and drinking yesterday—sustaining himself with sealed bottles of water—but he was still getting worse. And now, he couldn't even tell if his blood showed any signs of poison.

Could it be through the vents? That didn't make any sense. Why? Why didn't it make sense? Oh, Mrs. Hudson and John and Rosie. None of them were exhibiting these symptoms. Were they? Maybe they were. No, they weren't. He would have seen it. Right?

Sherlock groaned angrily as he grabbed the slide and threw it across the kitchen, smashing it against the wall. He clutched at his hair, tugging it in desperation. He had always had complete control over his mind—with the exception of the weeks after Mary's death when he had almost overdosed a dozen times over—and now, that control was slipping away.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he hurried up the stairs.

Sherlock released his hair just as John stepped into the doorway. He tried to look back at John as sanely as possible.

John looked down at the bits of broken glass on the floor. "What happened?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock, hoping he was saying the words he thought he was. "Dead end in the case."

John narrowed his eyes, taking in the disheveled sleep clothes and dressing gown, the wild curls, the shaky hands, the bloodshot eyes with bags under them, the ashen skin tone. He sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Not again…"

"What?" said Sherlock defensively. Although, he knew he should know what. John's tone was so suggestive of…something. Surely, he should know what John was thinking.

"How much did you take?" asked John.

"Take?" asked Sherlock, willing his mind to get it together.

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock," John told him in a stern voice.

 _If only I was playing,_ thought Sherlock. "I didn't take anything." And it was the truth. Whatever John was talking about, the only thing Sherlock had ingested in over twenty-four hours was water.

"Sherlock, look at you!" John said with a wave of his hand. "The last time I saw you like this was after Mary—" He broke off at the memory of his late wife.

 _Oh! The drugs!_ Sherlock realized.

"I have not taken any drugs," Sherlock told him. "I swore to you I wouldn't."

But from the look on John's face, he suspected something else had come out of his mouth.

"Molly deserves better, you know," John told him in a hard voice before turning and heading back downstairs.

 _Damn!_ Sherlock thought. He really needed to come up with a system to figure out what everyone was hearing him say.

 _A phone would—_

— _need to—_

— _bugged, and I—_

— _shouldn't do that until—_

— _the walls are—_

— _sit for a while—_

Sherlock groaned as he clutched at his head again.

* * *

Sherlock moved along the wall, searching for cracks or any other abnormality that would indicate a vent feeding the drugs into the room. His fingers moved along the wall frantically, his mind unable to stand still for a moment lest the thoughts barge in again. It had to be here! There had to be a way the drugs were getting in!

He froze. _No, that's not right. Why? Why isn't it the vents? Oh, right, John isn't affected. So, how?_

He wasn't being drugged through the water pipes or the food he had been eating. It couldn't be an aerosol since no one else was acting erratically. What did that leave?

 _Ugh! I can't remember!_

He pulled at his hair as he spun on the spot, trying to find his way through his mind palace, which right now resembled a crumbling wreckage at the center of a twister. Every time he thought he had grasped something, it would fly right back out again.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock spun around, his shaky hands held out in front of himself.

Mycroft stood in the doorway of the flat, a grim expression on his face at the sight of him. "You made John a promise."

Sherlock shook his head. "What promise?"

"To never use recreational drugs ever again," Mycroft told him.

"What drugs?" asked Sherlock, fidgeting as he moved to sit in his armchair.

"You may be able to fool everyone else, but not John and certainly not me," said Mycroft. "Especially in this state."

"I'm in the middle of a case," Sherlock told him.

"Need I remind you what happened the last time you said that?" said Mycroft.

Sherlock looked up at him, his brain finally getting with the program. "Magnussen."

" _I own John Watson's wife, I own Mycroft."_

" _No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes!"_

" _Let me flick your face."_

" _The United Kingdom. Petri dish to the Western world."_

Sherlock flinched, his head turning quickly to the side as he stilled his hands that were halfway to his head. He clenched his eyes shut, willing the voices to stop. _No, not voices, remember?_ "No drugs."

Mycroft shook his head. "So, this is what a **clean** junkie looks like, is it?"

Sherlock couldn't fault him there; technically, he **was** drugged.

"You recall the deal you made when you promised John to stay clean?" said Mycroft.

Sherlock frowned, trying to sift through his scattered memories.

"You are under house arrest until such a time as John deems you ready," said Mycroft. "Fieldson will be in charge of keeping an eye on you."

A tall blonde man in a suit stepped into the room next to Mycroft.

"Anything that could be used as a narcotic will be removed from the flat," said Mycroft.

Men in suits began filing into the kitchen, boxing up chemicals and equipment.

"No," said Sherlock, getting to his feet and making his way towards the kitchen, but someone bodily stopped him at the doors. "Stop!"

"Try not to make this hard on yourself," said Mycroft, turning and closing the flat's door behind him as he left.

Sherlock stared in horror as his lab equipment was grabbed and placed into cardboard boxes. His microscope, slides, pipettes, tubes, beakers, bottles of chemicals—they were taking everything! How was he going to fix what was wrong with him if he was confined to his flat under guard with no lab equipment?

"I need them!" exclaimed Sherlock, pushing at the hands on his chest.

"Trust me, Sherlock, you don't," said John, who was apparently the one restraining him.

Sherlock looked down at his hard, unrelenting glare. _Do it, Sherlock. This is getting serious._

Sherlock relaxed away from John as he leveled his gaze at him, praying with all he had that he was getting the words out right. "Help me, John." He hoped he was conveying his desperation in his voice; God knew his wide, terrified eyes were doing it well enough.

John shook his head as he stepped into the kitchen. "That's what we're trying to do." He slid the doors closed, shutting Sherlock off from him.

Sherlock stared at John's outline through the glass panels in the door, and he began to shake his head. _No. Not John._

Whenever everyone else lost faith, John had always been there. What was he supposed to do now? However he was being poisoned, it would only continue now that any method of discovering it had been taken away. Now, he would descend slowly into madness and then most likely die.

 _Just like our murder victim._

Sherlock's jaw dropped. _Of course…_

The murderer had poisoned the victim with antipsychotics and had now come after him to make sure he didn't solve it. But how? How was he being poisoned? It wasn't the food he was (not) eating or the bottled water he was drinking. So, how?

 _The vents! Of course!_

Renewed by that thought, Sherlock unknowingly started retracing his way around the room, searching for cracks or any other abnormality that would indicate a vent feeding the drugs into the room.

* * *

Sherlock flung the blankets from his bed, searching.

 _It has to be here!_

He yanked the sheets from the mattress, hearing a sharp sound that might have been the sheets tearing. Finding nothing hidden on the bed, he hurried to his dresser, taking drawers out and upending them. He ran his hands over every inch of the drawers before putting them on the floor and going through the contents that had fallen to the floor. But no matter how hard he searched, there wasn't a single camera or audio device.

It didn't make any sense. The seemingly invisible killer had set a trap of an immaculate crime scene to lure Sherlock in. Once he'd had Sherlock in his grasp, he had started poisoning him. This man (or woman) was after him, so why couldn't he find the bugs that obviously had to have been planted in his flat?

Sherlock stopped in the middle of tossing the shirts from his wardrobe. _No, that's not right._

The killer was after him now so that he wouldn't solve the murder. That was the only reason.

 _Get a grip!_

Sherlock grasped at his head as his mind reeled.

He had tried numerous times to get John back up to 221B—since his first attempt to get past Fieldson to go talk to John had ended disastrously—but John refused to come. Sherlock didn't really hold it against him; John was only acting in his best interests. Sherlock would be rewarded with the presence of his best friend after he had detoxed.

If only he could detox.

He had (foolishly) hoped that being confined to the flat—and therefore always there to observe it—and having a guard keeping watch would mean the drugs would stop getting into the flat. But he just kept getting worse. Which meant he was still being constantly exposed to it. It also meant something else…but what? He knew it was right in front of him, but the drugs were leaving him unable to access it.

By the second day following the arrival of Mycroft and his men, Sherlock felt his sanity balancing precariously on a precipice. He had thought experiencing his mind start to slip from his control was terrifying, but finally reaching out for help and having no one listen was worse. At least before, he had the hope of asking for help if he couldn't solve the problem. Now, it was like one of those dreams (nightmares) where something is happening, but you're frozen, unable to stop it.

His speech was deteriorating rapidly. He had used his mobile to record some notes, but when he played it back, the sentences made no sense. He had tried texting John, Lestrade and even Mycroft, but—despite what his eyes were telling him—he suspected his ability to write was also being affected.

 _Now, I can't even ask for help, even if John ignored the whole drugs thing._

Sherlock grasped the dressing gown hanging from his shoulders, staring at his wall of evidence in the sitting room. But there was hardly anything there. Crime scene photos (not that they did any good since there were no clues), the police reports, the toxicology report detailing the antipsychotic the woman had been poisoned with…but that was it. It was hard to put suspects up when your mind questioned every single person.

 _But you know who the killer is!_ Sherlock's mind screamed at him. _It's obvious! It's…_

But whatever clue that was telling him who the killer was, was being stubbornly vague.

"Dammit!" Sherlock shouted (at least he thought so) as he grabbed the case file from the coffee table and flung it across the room, papers flying from it.

 _Is this what everyone else feels like all the time?_ he wondered. _What a horribly ordinary existence._

" _I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."_

" _Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake."_

" _There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win. You lost."_

" _Either I'm a serial killer or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs, hmm?"_

"Shut up," Sherlock growled, grabbing at his head.

" _That's what people DO!"_

" _She's dying, you machine!"_

" _Look at the violin."_

" _Maintain eye contact!"_

" _The Appledore vaults are my mind palace."_

" _Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."_

"Shut up, shut up!" Sherlock's voice rose into a shout as his fingers threaded into his hair and began pulling. "Please shut up…"

" _Having trouble, Sherlock?"_

Sherlock froze as his eyes flew open. _No…_

" _Oh, yes!"_ Moriarty's voice echoed through his mind.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he shook his head. "No, no, no…"

" _Oh, come on, don't fight it,"_ said the voice. _"Then it's no fun."_

Sherlock quickly stepped over to his armchair, pulling his legs up in front of himself as he sat down. He tucked his arms in between his legs and his chest, wrapping the dressing gown tighter around himself.

" _Gotta admit, I wish I was alive to watch you slide your way into insanity,"_ muttered Moriarty. _"Isn't it wonderful?"_

"Go away," hissed Sherlock.

" _Oh, no, we're not going anywhere,"_ said Moriarty.

Sherlock paused, his heart quickening its pace. "We?"

" _Hello, little brother,"_ came Eurus' voice.

Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath.

" _You haven't visited lately,"_ said Eurus. _"It's a pity. I wanted to…_ play _with you again."_

" _And she's not the only one,"_ said Culverton Smith's voice. _"Why don't you come on down to my favorite room?"_

" _Or mine,"_ said Magnussen's voice. _"I was so much better than you with mind palaces, wasn't I?"_

As the voices began talking over one another, Sherlock's head sunk down into his hands, and an agonized cry burst from his throat.

" _Did you miss me?"_

" _I never had a best friend."_

" _Killing human beings, it just makes me…incredibly happy."_

" _Did you miss me?"_

" _I own John Watson's wife, I own Mycroft."_

" _I like to make people into things."_

" _Did you miss me?"_

" _I had no one."_

" _Did you miss me?"_

"Sir?"

Sherlock raised his head to see that Fieldson was standing in front of the armchair, a frown of concern on his face.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Not trusting his words, Sherlock shook his head.

"Come on," said Fieldson, grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm and helping him to his feet. "You should try to get some sleep."

Sherlock let himself be led through the sitting room, but as they reached the corridor that led from the kitchen to his bedroom, his lack of food from he couldn't remember how many days finally caught up to him, and he stumbled.

"Oh!" said Fieldson, catching him as his knees buckled. "I got ya."

Sherlock had flung his other arm out to grab the nearest form of support, which in this case was Fieldson himself. His hand latched onto the man's lapel as he caught his balance. In the slight tussle, an item came loose from the breast pocket inside Fieldson's jacket. It tumbled over Sherlock's hand and clattered on the floor, rolling to a stop a foot away as Sherlock stared at it.

It was an unmarked aerosol can.

Sherlock stared at the can as Fieldson quickly scooped it from the floor and tucked it back in his jacket. Sherlock's gaze left the floor and slowly moved up to the man's face, which was no longer professional and hospitable. Now, there was a glint in his eye as he stared at Sherlock with a hard gaze.

 _Of course… That's what was staring me in the face…_

The reason why he was getting worse, even after being put on house arrest, was that the person drugging him still had access to his flat. The killer was one of Mycroft's men: Fieldson.

"It was you," said Sherlock. "You killed Amanda Clarks. And you've been drugging me to get me off the scent…the same way you drugged her."

Fieldson stared at him another moment before a smile appeared on his face. He shook his head. "You really have no idea what you're actually saying, do you?"

Sherlock stared at him, his mind reeling at the implications of the killer's identity.

"Guess you should've asked for help while you still could," said Fieldson, his smile growing.

Sherlock watched him carefully for a moment before he turned and bolted towards the door, tearing through it and down the stairs. "John!"

As he reached the landing halfway down to the ground floor, he collided with someone who immediately grabbed hold of his arms.

"Mr. Holmes, calm down," Mycroft's nightshift guard Shriver told him. "Fieldson!"

"John!" Sherlock yelled, struggling with all his might against the man. "John, help!"

"Fieldson!" shouted Shriver.

"Sorry, he got away from me."

Sherlock looked back to see Fieldson hurrying down the stairs towards him, and it looked like the bastard had slammed his head into something to make it look like Sherlock had attacked him.

"Caught me off-guard," said Fieldson, reaching them.

Sherlock pushed with all his might, swinging the two of them around so that Shriver was now between him and Fieldson. He looked down at Shriver with a hard gaze. "Fieldson is poisoning me! Call Mycroft!"

Shriver's eyes grew concerned, and he looked back at Fieldson. "Did he hit his head?"

"I think he's at the delirious phase of his withdrawal," Fieldson replied. "We should probably get him to his bed."

"Come on, Mr. Holmes," Shriver told him, grasping firmly onto Sherlock's arm and pulling him up the stairs.

"No, you're not listening!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Fieldson is trying to kill me!"

"Don't worry," said Shriver in a placating tone. "We'll tell the Queen all about the jellyfish. Everything's going to be all right."

 _Oh, bugger this…_

"John!" Sherlock yelled, practically screaming as he tried to lunge past Shriver down the stairs. "Help!"

"It's all right, Mr. Holmes," Fieldson told him as he helped Shriver struggle to pull him back up to the flat.

"John, I'm in danger!" Sherlock yelled, trying his hardest to break free of them. "He'll kill me if you don't do something! John!"

Shriver tightened his hold on Sherlock as he and Fieldson practically wrestled him back up the stairs.

"Vatican cameos!" Sherlock screamed. "Vatican cameos! John!"

* * *

John screwed his eyes shut when he heard pounding footsteps on the stairs. _Dammit, Sherlock…_

"John!"

John moved up the stairs to the door of his flat, cracking it open to listen. Apparently, Sherlock had gotten past Fieldson and was now being detained by Shriver coming in for his shift.

"John!" Sherlock yelled as sounds of a struggle drifted through the ground floor. "John, help!"

"Fieldson!" shouted Shriver.

"Sorry, he got away from me," said Fieldson.

The struggle ceased for a moment.

"Caught me off-guard," said Fieldson.

"Moriarty is in my head!" said Sherlock in a hard, slow tone. "Kill the dog!"

There was a moment's pause.

"Did he hit his head?" asked Shriver.

"I think he's at the delirious phase of his withdrawal," said Fieldson. "We should probably get him to his bed."

"Come on, Mr. Holmes," said Shriver.

"No, you're sick!" yelled Sherlock in a desperate yet frustrated tone. "The Queen needs the jellyfish!"

"Don't worry," said Shriver in a placating tone. "We'll tell the Queen all about the jellyfish. Everything's going to be all right."

John closed his eyes. _Please just do what they say, Sherlock._

But he didn't. The sounds of struggle started up again as Sherlock began fighting back once more.

"John!" Sherlock screamed in a tone that made John wince as he told himself not to rise to the bait. "Help!"

"It's all right, Mr. Holmes," Fieldson spoke up.

"John, Redbeard's in danger!" Sherlock screamed. "The tree isn't there where Moriarty lies! John!"

John's hand clenched on the doorknob as he fought with himself over going to help his distressed friend. _Just let him detox. Don't give in._

"Death!" Sherlock screamed as the bangs and thumps continued. "Death! John!"

John grimaced as he shut the door, putting his back against it.

"John!" Sherlock yelled one more time before the distant slam of 221B's door echoed through the building.

John brought his hand to his head. _What have you done to yourself, Sherlock?_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Molly stepped through the front door of Baker Street, lugging her bags behind her. Closing the door behind her, she moved through the second door into the main hallway, stunned to see John sitting on the stairs up to her flat.

"John!" Molly greeted, a smile on her face. "Hey! How're things? Sherlock survive while I was gone?" She laughed a little as she set her bags down by the fireplace at her right.

John only looked up at her with a solemn expression on his face.

Molly's smile faded as worry started to creep in. "John?"

John took a deep breath as he stood and stepped towards her.

"John, what's…" began Molly, her heart starting to pound. "Where's Sherlock?"

John took hold of her hands, speaking softly. "Molly…"

"No!" exclaimed Molly, tears filling her eyes. _He can't be!_

"He's alive," John quickly continued in his quiet tone.

Molly let out a relieved sob as she willed the tears to stop.

"But he's had a relapse," John told her.

"Relapse?" asked Molly as she got her breathing back under control.

John hesitated a moment before plowing on. "Drugs."

Molly frowned in confusion. _Drugs? But he promised. And he's never intentionally broken a promise._

"I don't know why," said John. "He's in the best mood I've ever seen him in, and then he just decides to—" He broke off, glancing away and shaking his head.

Molly glanced towards the stairs. "How long has he been up there?"

"Three days," John told her. "Mycroft's men have been keeping guard, and they've had to nail all the windows shut so he wouldn't escape."

"Escape?" asked Molly in alarm.

"Apparently, he's in pretty bad shape," John replied. "I haven't been to see him myself."

Molly nodded, looking down at the floor.

"But if anything can get through to him, you can," said John.

Molly nodded again, looking up at him.

John pulled her into a hug. "I'll be right down here if you need me."

"Thank you," said Molly, pulling away from John and turning towards the stairs.

When she got to the first floor, a blonde man in a suit stood just inside the flat when she opened the door. "Dr. Hooper."

Molly closed the door behind her as she glanced around the sitting room. Nothing appeared to be too out of place; maybe a little messy, but Sherlock had had his messy days before. "The bedroom?"

The man nodded. "Yes, ma'am. He, erm…hasn't left it in a couple days."

"Thank you," Molly told him, stepping through the unusually bare kitchen.

She made her way down the hall to the door at the end of it, pausing to listen. She could hear a muffled scraping sound that she couldn't place.

Molly gave a tentative knock. "Sherlock?"

The sound didn't cease, so she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

She had never seen anything quite like it. Clothes were thrown every which way. Drawers were dumped upside down in front of the dresser. The bedding lay crumpled half-on the bed and half-on the floor, ripped in a few places. Papers littered the floor and bed, some crumpled, some torn and others abandoned. But it was the walls that got her heart going. Every inch of the wallpaper was covered with letters, numbers, shapes and other scribbles she couldn't make out. Not a single bit of it made sense; it was complete gibberish.

The scratching sound caught her attention, and she looked to her left. On the other side of the bed, a dark head of hair was bobbing back and forth. Molly moved around the foot of the bed and found Sherlock sitting on the floor in the corner, scratching on the wall with a knife. He was wearing sleep clothes and one of his dressing gowns. His hair was a mess of tangles and curls and obviously hadn't been washed in days.

"Sherlock?" said Molly, frozen where she stood.

Sherlock froze, his head cocking a little to the side. He raised his head, glancing back and forth along the wall before his head slowly turned in her direction.

Molly stifled a gasp at the sight. Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot and sunken into his face like he hadn't eaten in days. His skin was so pale beneath the stubble lining his jaw that it was a wonder she couldn't see through him. But it was the look in his eyes that scared her. She had never seen him look so lost.

Sherlock's eyes brightened as he turned his body more to look at her. "Molly! Good! You'll see! You'll see." His hand went back to the wall, slapping his palm on it a few times. "It's here. All here. Moriarty thought he won, but I have you. Shh!" His eyes darted all over the room as his hands fidgeted in front of his chest. His voice hissed out in a whisper. "He hears! We can't let him hear!" He paused, his eyes staring off into the room. The fingers of his left hand began twitching against his thumb as his right hand moved the knife back and forth in front of his chest. "The walls…" He looked over at the wall in front of him. "He's in the walls…"

Molly's jaw hung slack as she stood frozen at the end of the bed. _What happened to him?_

Sherlock touched his fingers to the wall. "Moriarty…walls…" His head jerked up towards the ceiling. "Yes, I know. I hear you." He suddenly let out a sharp yell as he grabbed at his head, grimacing as he shook it.

Tears filled Molly's eyes as she felt her legs give out from under her, her knees hitting the floor.

"Bugs, bugs, bugs," muttered Sherlock, hitting his hand on the side of his head a few times before looking up at the walls again. "Invisible." He looked over at Molly. "He's invisible! Right in front of you!" He suddenly scrambled towards her, and Molly had to fight off the panic at the crazed look in his eyes as he grabbed onto her shoulders. "You see, yes? You see?"

Tears fell down Molly's face as she looked at the man Sherlock had become.

"Moriarty invisible in the walls!" Sherlock told her loudly, and Molly could feel the tremors coursing through his hands. "Bugs in my head!"

Molly took a deep breath as she brought her hand up to his face and he stared back at her in desperation. "I see." Her voice broke as she tried to keep it together for him. "I see, Sherlock. I'm going to help get those bugs out, all right?"

But the hopefully desperate look was fading as Sherlock shook his head. "No." His brows drew together in despair. "No, no. It's code. It's all code!" He tore away from Molly and back to his corner, going back to his scratches. "Find it. See it."

Molly collapsed a little as she cried for a moment. Then, she pulled herself to her feet and hurried to the door, running out to the kitchen door that led to the stairs. "John!" She hurried back to the room, watching Sherlock from the foot of the bed.

Sherlock grabbed his head with both hands, groaning as he lowered it. "Can't see, can't know!" He released his head and started scratching at the wall again.

Footsteps thundered into the flat, and Molly looked over to see John running into the kitchen, a panicked look on his face.

"What?" asked John as he walked towards her. "What is it?"

"I don't think drugs were the problem, John," Molly told him.

John stepped through the doorway, his eyes already taking in the deranged mess of the room with a frown.

"Walls have eyes," Sherlock muttered.

John glanced over at him, moving around the bed so he could see him.

Sherlock scratched some more letters into the wall. "Always see, always hear. No, no, no. The case is here. I told them."

John's jaw dropped as he stared down at his friend. "Oh, my God…"

Sherlock turned his head slightly at John's voice, his left fingers tapping his thumb as he moved the knife back and forth in his right hand. "The code…code…" His eyes darted up the wall he was sitting in front of, searching it. "In the walls, the walls." He pulled himself to his feet, his hands flying over the wall to different scratches he had made. "Here. Everything here. No more, no more." He turned suddenly, moving past John to the wall opposite the bed and searching the scratches there. "No, no, no, not here!" His hands went to his head, pulling at his hair. He spun on the spot, his eyes darting all over the room as he frowned in pain. He then stopped, staring at the wall behind his bed. "Yes." He hurried over and jumped onto the mattress, crouching at the headboard as his hands went to the wall.

John looked over at Molly, who looked back at him with tears in her eyes.

"The code is the key, the key in the walls," muttered Sherlock, his fingers running over the scratches he had made. "The walls in the lock, a lock that can't be seen." He turned sharply around to look at them. "You see?" His eyes moved to John. "You see? Right in front of you, invisible! Moriarty! Shh!" He flung his hands out as they shook. He glanced around the room as though afraid they would be overheard. "He can hear us! Mustn't say! Mustn't know!" He yelled, grabbing at his head as his forehead went down to his bent knees. "Know, see, hear!" He groaned as he pulled at his hair.

A hand went to Molly's mouth as tears fell down her face.

Sherlock raised his head, looking at them past his arms still tugging at his hair with desperate, terrified eyes. "Help me." He then collapsed in on himself, his forehead nearly touching the mattress as he rocked back and forth.

"What happened to him?" Molly whispered as she stepped forward and sat next to Sherlock, pulling him into her arms.

Sherlock paid her no mind as he continued to hold his head and groan.

John strode straight to the door and barked out, "Fieldson!" He stepped back into the room as the blonde man in the suit walked in.

"Yes, Dr. Watson?" asked Fieldson.

John pointed at Sherlock, an accusing glare on his face. "How long has he been like this?"

"A couple days," Fieldson answered.

"Why wasn't I told?" John demanded.

"I did, sir," said Fieldson.

"You said he was in bad withdrawal!" John yelled at him. "You never said he was losing his mind!"

"My apologies, sir," said Fieldson. "I was warned Mr. Holmes was unorthodox and believed this was his way of going through withdrawal. I should have reported it."

"Yes, you should have," John told him, glaring at him before turning away and pacing.

"Stop, stop, make it stop!" exclaimed Sherlock, starting to bang his hand on the side of his head.

"Shh, shh," Molly soothed as she stilled his hand.

Sherlock's head rose, staring blankly at the bed.

John walked back to Fieldson. "Call Mycroft and get him here immediately."

"Yes, sir," said Fieldson, turning towards the door.

Sherlock had looked up at them and now bolted from the bed, shouting. "No! No!" He pushed himself into the corner furthest from the door, crouching down towards the floor and staring in fear at the two of them. "Back! Moriarty!" He looked up at Molly, who had stood and was moving cautiously towards him. "See! Right there! Moriarty!"

Molly knelt in front of him, her hands out. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked over at John with wide eyes. "Bugs, John! Bugs!"

"Sherlock, it's okay," Molly told him, placing her hands on his arms. "We're going to figure this out."

Sherlock closed his eyes, throwing his head back against the wall and groaning in frustration. He opened his eyes and looked over at the door as Fieldson turned and left the room.

"I'm going to call Greg," said John, pulling his phone out.

Molly looked down at Sherlock's shirt, which looked to have several stains on it. "When was the last time you bathed?"

Sherlock looked over at Molly. "Cases are cold."

Molly gave him a smile before holding her hands out. "Come on."

Sherlock grasped onto her hands, and Molly pulled him to his feet. She started leading him towards the door that led to the bathroom.

"Let me know if you need anything," John told her as he raised his phone to his ear.

"If you could leave a change of clothes in here?" said Molly.

John nodded. "No problem." He turned towards the closet, switching the phone to his other hand. "Hey, Greg. You need to get to Baker Street. Now."

Molly led Sherlock into the bathroom, closing both doors and sitting him on the side of the tub.

"Molly, chips," Sherlock told her.

Molly gave him a reassuring smile. "Right, Sherlock. Chips."

Sherlock closed his eyes in a grimace and groaned.

Molly turned and retrieved a towel, razor and shaving cream, setting them on the closed toilet lid. "Come on."

She helped Sherlock out of his dressing gown, shirt, bottoms and pants as the tub filled with water. When it had filled, she sat Sherlock down in it, getting soap onto a flannel.

"Not red," Sherlock told her with a determined look as she started washing his chest.

"Not red," said Molly, tears filling her eyes as she continued scrubbing at his skin. "Right."

Apparently fed up with the whole thing, Sherlock suddenly sat up and turned to face her. Molly startled back a little as he reached forward and pulled the can of shaving cream and razor from the toilet lid.

Sherlock held up the can in front of her. "Razor." He then brandished the razor, speaking very slowly and clearly. "Cream."

Molly stared at him before shaking her head sadly and reaching forward to take the items from him.

Sherlock snatched them back out of her reach before tossing the razor back onto the towel. He held the can of shaving cream in front of her in his left hand as his right touched his forehead.

"Cream," Sherlock said in a firm voice, as though he was using all his strength to get the word out.

Molly frowned as she watched him. He was clearly trying to tell her something.

Sherlock moved his hand to his mouth and said in that same tone, "Razor."

Molly stared from the can to him and back. _Mind, cream. Mouth, razor. What?_ She then looked down at the razor that he had first called "cream." Her eyes widened as she looked up at Sherlock. "Your mind says 'cream' while your mouth says 'razor…'"

Sherlock's face brightened immeasurably as he nodded. "Code!"

"It's all code…" said Molly, repeating Sherlock's earlier words. She looked into the hopeful eyes staring back at her, still lost but with a faint glimmer of himself that Molly could finally see. "You're still in there, aren't you?"

A smile split Sherlock's face as he reached forward, placing his hands on either side of her face and pulling her in for a firm kiss. He pulled back, smiling at her. "Love you."

Molly smiled, laughing a little in relief that he was still there with her. "I love you, too."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 **I meant to have this posted Saturday morning, but I forgot and was at graduations all weekend.**

* * *

Molly ushered Sherlock out into the sitting room, where John, Lestrade and Mycroft stood, talking. When they caught sight of the two of them, they immediately stopped talking and looked at Sherlock, who appeared slightly more sane now that he was in clean clothes and dressing gown and had had a wash. His eyes kept darting all over the room, and his hands would not stay still.

Sherlock glanced up at the three men as he and Molly stepped through the doorway of the kitchen. "Molly shows me tea."

Lestrade and Mycroft, having not seen him in this state before, looked at him in alarm while John just stared at him sadly, not sure what to say. Sherlock's brows drew together as his shoulder twitched upwards, and he looked at Molly.

Molly shook her head. "No, it didn't come out quite right."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Biscuits!" He pulled away from Molly and hurried towards his armchair.

Molly let out a quickly stifled giggle, but Sherlock heard it all the same. He turned on the spot and gave her a hard look.

"Sorry," Molly told him. "It's not really funny, is it?"

Sherlock continued towards his chair just as his hand flew up to his head, pulling at his hair as he grimaced.

John frowned from Sherlock to Molly. "What's going on?"

"He's not losing his mind," Molly told them. "I mean, he is, but not in the way that we thought. He's still lucid—well, mostly. His mind is mixing up his words."

John's eyes widened as he turned to look at Sherlock, who was staring at his left hand as the fingers tapped against the thumb.

"What?" asked Molly.

John looked back at her. "He started doing that earlier this week." He looked at Lestrade. "Remember? He would be talking perfectly fine, and then, he would say a few words completely out of context and wouldn't remember. I assumed he was exhausted from lack of sleep."

"And he hasn't been able to focus," said Lestrade with a nod. "He kept second-guessing his deductions and losing his train of thought."

"The crown will see what is illegible," Sherlock muttered.

They all looked over as he pulled his feet up onto the cushion in front of him.

"What is in the ground won't be here," he continued before he suddenly started laughing, staring off into the fireplace. "Shh!" The smile fell from his face as his eyes widened. "Wood and fire and grass rises! Tall, tall, tall, TALL!" He grabbed at his head again, yelling.

"The question is what he could have been exposed to that would cause him to exhibit psychosis," said Mycroft.

John and Lestrade looked at each other, their eyes widening and jaws dropping in realization.

"What?" asked Molly.

John looked over at Sherlock. "The case we've been working, the victim was poisoned with antipsychotics, which can make a person more psychotic in large doses. The murderer came after Sherlock to stop him solving it!"

"He's being poisoned?" asked Mycroft, looking in concern at Sherlock.

Molly stepped over in front of Sherlock's chair, kneeling in front of it. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head came up and turned towards the fireplace.

"Sherlock," said Molly, praying he hadn't exhausted his mental strength getting through to her. "Hey."

Sherlock turned his head as his hands started fidgeting in his lap again. His eyes finally found hers.

"I need you to focus for just a little longer," Molly told him. "Can you do that?"

Sherlock reached one of his hands forward and clasped tightly onto her own.

"Have you eaten anything the past few days?" asked Molly.

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head.

"Have you drunk anything?" asked Molly.

"Calcium," Sherlock told her, looking up at the kitchen.

Molly looked behind her to see bottles of water littered all over the counters and table. She looked back at Sherlock. "Just bottled water? Nothing from the tap?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You realized you were being drugged, so you quit eating and drinking," said Molly. "But you kept getting worse, so it must be something else."

Sherlock smiled at her and then—without warning—flung her hand away, causing her to topple back to the floor. "Get away!" He put his hands on the rests to push himself forward to yell down at her in fury. "Black as light and never a day to be!" The next instant, his eyes widened as he stared down at Molly lying on the floor. "No, no, no, no!" He crumpled back against the chair, tears filling his eyes. "No, no!"

Molly quickly got to her feet and sat next to him in his chair. "Hey, hey…" She pulled him into her arms as he clung to her shirt. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean to."

"No…" sobbed Sherlock against her chest.

Molly looked up at them with tears in her eyes. "He's getting worse."

"All right, so, if it's not something he's eating or drinking, then what?" said Lestrade. "An aerosol?"

John shook his head. "If he was being drugged through the air vents or something, Mrs. Hudson and I would be showing symptoms, too."

"That would leave injections and topical," said Molly.

"I highly doubt Sherlock would fail to notice someone stabbing him with a needle," said Mycroft. "Topical it is."

John glanced around the flat. "It could be anything he has regular contact with. His violin, the furniture…"

"My people will test everything, starting with Sherlock's blood," said Mycroft. "The security on the flat will be increased immediately." He strode towards the door, pulling out his phone. "Fieldson." He stepped out into the stairwell.

Fieldson stepped into the flat, taking up his spot just inside the door.

"Moriarty!" Sherlock exclaimed, startling them all. He grabbed hold of Molly's shoulders, looking at her. "Moriarty invisible! Invisible!" He began to get more upset, his fingers white on her arms. "He's in the walls!"

John quickly stepped over, leaning over the seat and placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll figure it out, Sherlock. We will. But you need to relax."

Sherlock looked up at him and then down at his tight grip on Molly's arms. He immediately let go with a gasp, his right hand moving back and forth in front of his chest and his left fingers tapping at his left thumb.

"Come on," said John, helping him to stand. "How about you get some sleep?"

Sherlock frowned at him as he got shakily to his feet.

"We're here now, and we know what's really going on," John told him. "We won't let anything happen to you."

Sherlock still didn't look like he had absorbed any of that, but he did allow them to lead him back to the bedroom, where Molly made the bed with clean sheets and a new blanket.

"Sherlock," said Molly, taking hold of his hand.

Sherlock turned his head towards her.

"Time to sleep," said Molly, gently pulling him towards the bed.

Sherlock glanced at the bed and slowly shuffled his feet forward. Molly sat him on the edge of the bed, helping him remove the dressing gown. He turned and crawled under the blanket as Molly covered him with it.

She leaned down and gave him a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight." She straightened, starting to move away.

Sherlock's hand shot out, grasping onto her arm. "No!" He looked up at her with pleading eyes. "No."

Molly smiled before kicking off her shoes and climbing in next to him. She held her arm out, and Sherlock curled up next to her, his arm slung over her stomach.

* * *

They spent days searching for the poison and trying to decipher Sherlock's wall scratches and disjointed phrases but had come up with nothing. Everything they had tested so far had come back negative, and no matter which way they looked at it, Sherlock's gibberish was still…well, gibberish. And as they continued to work on it, Sherlock kept deteriorating. By the third day since Molly had come home, Sherlock's speech had fallen into complete nonsense. He was no longer able to say anything he meant to, not even a single word. Or perhaps he was; they had no way of knowing. Sherlock was no longer lucid; he could no longer focus on anything, he wouldn't respond to their voices—in all likelihood, he wasn't even aware of their presence.

Molly stood and watched as Sherlock stood at one of the walls of their bedroom, his fingers trailing over his scratches as though he were reading it.

"The plane dips below the sea, and all the dogs will feed tonight," Sherlock mumbled as he rocked back and forth on his feet. "It all spills out into the void until it can't see the darkness. Paper and water, together over the world." His left hand went to his head, the heel of it bouncing against his skull several times as his voice rose slightly. "Clouds won't fly, but clouds won't fly, and—" He groaned as he hit his head one last time and brought his hand away, the fingers resuming their tapping of the thumb that they seemed unable to stop lately. His right hand began moving back and forth over the wall. "Games and tricks won't solve the night, and the queen will surely be angry."

Sherlock continued muttering in this way as Molly turned away and headed back into the kitchen, where John sat eating breakfast (after Mycroft's team had tested the food, of course). "I can't watch him anymore." Tears filled her eyes as she sat at the table, hugging a dressing gown of Sherlock's closer around her.

John stood and moved over to her chair, squatting down and pulling Molly into a hug.

Molly fisted her hands in the back of John's shirt, crying. "What if he dies just like that woman?"

"Hey," John told her. "We will find out what's going on. There's only a few things left to test, after all. One of them must be the thing that carries the drugs."

Molly nodded, trying to stem the flow of her tears.

"We'll get him back, Molly," John told her, pulling back so he could look at her. "I mean, it's been, what, three times that we thought we lost him in one way or another? Well, two for you." He gave her a fake glare at the reminder that Molly never believed Sherlock to have killed himself.

Molly laughed a little, wiping her eyes.

"And he somehow always came back, didn't he?" said John.

Molly nodded, taking a deep breath.

"Besides, if worse comes to worse, we can always just take him away," said John. "Put him in a safehouse until he detoxes."

Reassured by that thought, Molly smiled. John stood, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he went and moved back to his breakfast.

"The stars burning," Sherlock muttered.

Molly turned to see him shuffling through the room.

"Burning through the walls," Sherlock muttered as his hands twitched in front of him. His pace quickened as he made his way through to the sitting room. "The walls, the walls!"

Molly stood and entered the sitting room, where Sherlock stood at one of the windows, tapping at it with his fingernails.

"The walls are watching!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Watching, watching!" He brought his forehead forward, bumping it against the window.

Molly hurried forward and placed her hand gently on his arm. "Hey…"

Sherlock stared out the window, his lips moving but not speaking.

"It's all right," Molly told him, running her fingers back and forth over his arm. "You're safe. The walls are not watching. I'm the only one here."

Sherlock slowly eased back from the window, his breathing evening back out.

"That's it," Molly said softly. "Come here."

Sherlock's eyes trailed up towards the top of the window as he let himself be led to the sofa. Molly sat down next to him and gently nudged him until he lay down on his side, his head on her legs. Molly stroked her fingers through his hair, and after a moment, Sherlock's hand came up and loosely gripped onto her knee.

"I'm telling you, said John quietly.

Molly looked up at him leaning against the doorway into the kitchen.

"He knows you're there," said John. "Somehow, a part of him still knows you're there."

Molly smiled and looked down at Sherlock, whose eyes had fallen closed.

A knock came at the door, and it opened to reveal Mycroft and Lestrade. Lestrade stepped into the room as Mycroft turned to Fieldson standing just outside the door.

"No one enters, understand?" said Mycroft.

Fieldson nodded. "Yes, sir."

Mycroft closed the door as John stepped further into the room.

"What's going on?" asked John.

Mycroft glanced at the door and then at John, speaking in a low voice. "My people have come back with the results of the final items that were tested."

"And?" asked Molly in an equally quiet voice, her hope rising.

"Negative," said Mycroft.

Molly stared at him, unsure if she had heard correctly.

"Not a single item in this flat tested positive for antipsychotics," Mycroft went on.

"That's impossible," said John. "The poison **has** to be on something Sherlock is in constant contact with."

"I agree," said Mycroft. "Which leaves only one possible solution."

Molly looked back up at him, her hope surging once again.

"The culprit is one of my men," said Mycroft.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"What?" said Lestrade.

"The poisoner is either interfering with the tests themselves or the samples that were taken to test," Mycroft went on. "And the only people working on either are in my employ."

"Well, then, let's do something about it!" exclaimed John, keeping his voice quiet. "Take all of them off his security detail!"

"Without knowing who it is, that would succeed only in tipping him off," said Mycroft.

"What about a safehouse?" asked Molly. She gestured at John. "John thought maybe we could just take Sherlock away."

Mycroft shook his head. "Again, we would be tipping him off. Based on the first crime scene, this individual is smart. He would only track Sherlock down and kill him."

"Then what do we do?" asked Molly, her heart starting to pound frantically.

Something of her panic must have shown, because Lestrade stepped over and knelt next to the armrest of the sofa, placing his hand on her shoulder.

"We must continue to behave as though we know nothing," said Mycroft.

"And let Sherlock keep getting poisoned," said John as he closed his eyes in resignation.

"Couldn't we set up cameras?" suggested Molly.

"The footage would only get altered," Mycroft replied.

"I'll set up a surveillance in the building across the street," said Lestrade. "Maybe we'll be able to see who comes and goes most often."

Mycroft nodded. "It's probably one of the only things we can do."

Sherlock started tossing and turning, his brow furrowed in his sleep.

"No…" he muttered.

Molly placed her hand on his head to soothe him.

"No, bugs," said Sherlock, his voice rising. "Bugs!" His eyes flew open as he bolted up to a sitting position. "Bugs!"

"Hey, hey," Molly told him quietly, laying her hand on his arm. "The bugs aren't here. Sherlock."

Sherlock's gaze went to the floor as he brought his hands up in front of himself, his left hand's fingers twitching against the thumb and his right hand jerking back and forth spastically in front of his chest. His eyes were wide as he hyperventilated.

"It's me," Molly told him softly. "I'm here, and you're going to be all right."

Sherlock's breathing calmed down as his head turned slightly towards Molly, his gaze raising to the table in front of them. "Baker Street girl."

Molly glanced up at John with an amused smile—which he returned—before she looked back at Sherlock, placing her hand on the side of his face and kissing him on the cheek. "That's right. Baker Street girl."

"That's what Mary called us," said John as Molly looked up at him. "In those videos she made to be sent after she died? That's what she called us: Baker Street boys."

Lestrade shook his head from where he was still kneeling next to Molly. "I swear he's got this whole thing solved; he just can't tell us 'cause it comes out as code."

 _Code…_ John thought, that word sticking with him like it had done every time he had heard it the past few days. Only this time, it jogged something loose.

" _The world's run on codes and ciphers, John."_

" _You're asking Molly to marry you…with a musical cipher."_

 _Sherlock used his violin to compose a few more notes on the song, his left hand fingering the notes on the fingerboard as his right hand brought the bow back and forth across the strings._

John's gaze flew to Sherlock as he sat on the sofa, staring absently into the room. The fingers of his left hand twitched towards and away from his thumb. The fingers of his right hand were curled loosely around thin air as the hand moved from left to right over and over again.

"Code…" said John, a smile lighting his face.

Molly looked up at him, a frown on her face at the happy expression she saw there. "What is it?"

John gestured towards Sherlock, keeping his voice down. "His musical cipher, of course! He's trying to play the violin!" He moved over to the corner, where Sherlock's violin and bow lay.

Mycroft, meanwhile, had glanced down at Sherlock's hands, a look of realization dawning in his eyes.

"Musical cipher?" asked Lestrade.

John looked back at them as he retrieved the violin, glancing at Molly for a moment. "He'd been experimenting with different codes and ciphers in case he can't communicate openly." He brandished the violin. " _This_ is the one he was working on just before this all happened." He turned and began moving papers around on the table until he found the song Sherlock had composed with the cipher along the top. "Yes! Here it is! All we have to do is find a phone app that can transpose music!"

Lestrade immediately pulled out his phone and started searching. "Not sure I completely understand, but I definitely want to be a part of it."

John set the song on the table and picked up the violin and bow again. "His words may be getting mixed up, but that cipher may have been untouched."

"Try it," said Molly with a nod.

"Got one," said Lestrade, holding up his phone.

"All right, then," said John, stepping over to the sofa.

Molly turned Sherlock's left palm upwards, and John eased the neck of the violin into the twitching fingers. They froze before slowly wrapping themselves around it. John gently nudged the frog end of the bow into Sherlock's right hand and then stepped back.

Sherlock's gaze slowly tracked down to the violin as Lestrade hit the record button on the app and held the phone out. Sherlock's fingers flexed around the violin's neck as his eyes moved over it. He then looked over to the bow, and his fingers positioned themselves correctly on it.

 _Oh, please,_ Molly begged. _Please._

Sherlock's left arm slowly raised the violin and stuck the cracked bout on his shoulder. The bow was then placed on the strings as his gaze grew unfocused and distant. And he began playing. It was a mix of disjointed notes that sounded like someone who was partially tone deaf had written it. It wasn't long, though, before Sherlock lowered the bow and violin, holding them loosely in his lap.

Lestrade stopped recording and handed the phone to John, who quickly turned towards the cipher on the table as Molly eased the violin and bow from Sherlock's limp hands. John spent a couple minutes scribbling away on a notepad as he translated the notes on the app into letters.

POISONEDANTIPSYCHOTICTOPICALFIELDSON

John then set about separating them into words.

POISON

John quickly moved on; they had already figured that out.

EDANTIPSYCH…

 _No, wait…_

POISONED ANTIPSYCHOTIC

 _Anti-psychotic. Already got that bit._

TO PICA… TOPICAL

 _Oh, come on! There has to be something useful here!_

FIELDSON

John's jaw dropped as the pen did as well.

"John?" asked Lestrade.

"He did it…" said John, smiling as he turned to them and looked up from the paper. "He solved it…" He turned the pad of paper and showed them what he had written.

"That bastard," growled Lestrade as he turned towards the door.

Mycroft stepped in front of him. "You can't, Inspector. Right now, all we have is Sherlock's word on it. You know very well a court will never accept the testimony of an individual so mentally incompetent."

"He's right, Greg," John told him. "We have to catch him in the act."

"How?" asked Molly as Lestrade turned back into the room. "You said so yourself that the table shouldn't be lifted."

John, Lestrade and Mycroft all looked over at her with a frown.

"What?" asked Molly.

"What did you just say?" asked John.

"That we can't use cameras without him tampering with them," said Molly, confused.

John shook his head, his eyes wide. "You said, 'the table shouldn't be lifted.'"

Molly's eyes widened as she looked over at Sherlock, who sat staring off at the wall. "Oh, God…"

"She's been exposed," said Lestrade. "What has she handled that—"

"Take that off," said Mycroft suddenly.

Molly looked up at him as the others did as well. "What?"

"You're both wearing his dressing gowns," said Mycroft. "How long have you had that on?"

"Since yesterday," said Molly.

John looked over at Sherlock as it clicked. "His dressing gowns! Of course! He's always wearing one when he's in the flat!"

Molly quickly shed the dressing gown and tossed it across the room as John and Lestrade slowly helped Sherlock out of his.

"So, now we know where to watch," said John, tossing the gown into the corner on top of the other one. "Anyone have a plan?"

* * *

Fieldson turned when the flat's door opened. Mycroft Holmes stepped out and turned to him as the three others exited and headed down the stairs.

"Fieldson," said Mycroft, planting his umbrella in front of him and placing both hands on it. "Have you noticed any suspicious activity. _Any_ persons coming or going that have not been myself, Dr. Watson, Dr. Hooper, Inspector Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson?"

Fieldson shook his head. "No, sir."

"Has Shriver seen anything?" asked Mycroft.

"Not that he's told me," Fieldson replied.

"Hmm," said Mycroft, thinking for a second. "We need you to start watching over Sherlock. Keep him in your sights and don't turn your back for a moment, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Fieldson with a nod.

"We have reason to believe the culprit is gaining access to the flat through alternate means," Mycroft told him. "Dr. Hooper is starting to show symptoms herself. It may very well be an aerosolized drug confined to the bedroom. She's the only one that has spent so much time in there besides Sherlock. We are taking her to Bart's for a biopsy. The chemical may be present in the cells of her lungs." His phone chimed, and he pulled it out to read the text he had just received. "Speaking of, I must be going." He looked up at Fieldson. "Keep watch until we return."

"Yes, sir," said Fieldson.

Mycroft turned and made his way down the stairs.

Fieldson turned and stepped into the flat, glancing back at where Sherlock's bedroom door was closed. He moved over to the window, watching as Mycroft got into his car, and it pulled away. He waited a few moments before turning and moving to the bedroom, cracking the door open. Sherlock lay in his bed, the blanket covering all but the top of his head as he curled up under the covers, his breathing even and shallow. Asleep.

Fieldson edged the door open wider, taking the aerosol can of Prolixin out of his pocket and approaching the bureau in the corner. Opening the door, he reached inside, spraying the solution onto the dressing gowns hung inside.

"Stop!"

Fieldson spun on the spot, finding John sitting up on the bed, a gun aimed at him. The door of the bathroom opened, and Molly stepped out, holding onto Sherlock's hand as he trailed behind her. And neither one of them were wearing the dressing gowns anymore.

"Hand it over," John ordered as he moved off of the bed without taking his eyes off of him.

Fieldson sighed as he held the bottle out. "How'd you know?"

"Never underestimate Sherlock Holmes," John told him as Molly stepped closer. He gave him a smirk. "Trust me. He always finds a way to solve the case."

Molly snatched the bottle from Fieldson's hands and moved quickly back to Sherlock, putting her arm around him.

John moved forward, grabbing hold of Fieldson's arm as he tucked his gun into his waistband. He turned Fieldson around and pulled both of his arms behind his back, marching him towards the door.

Sherlock's head lifted as they reached him. "Moriarty lose."

Fieldson glared at him as Molly gave him a satisfied smile.

"Yes, he did," said Molly before John pushed him out into the hall.

* * *

 **Okay, if anyone would like to hear how they did that (because I didn't want to put that much exposition into the chapter there):**

 **They made it appear as though they were taking Molly to the hospital. Mycroft was to distract Fieldson while the three of them went down front. Lestrade got in his car and waited. John and Molly went around back and went up the fire escape, sneaking into Sherlock's room through the window. John, of course, pretended to be Sherlock. Molly took Sherlock into the adjoining bathroom. Molly then sent a text to Mycroft to tell him they were ready. Mycroft goes down front, and Lestrade drives away with him to make it look like they were off to the hospital (should Fieldson look out the window, which he did).**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

An hour later, after Lestrade and Mycroft had taken Fieldson away and Molly had given herself and Sherlock a bath to scrub off any lingering chemicals, Molly sat on the sofa with Sherlock as John made tea in the kitchen.

"You did such a good job staying quiet, Sherlock," Molly told him. "I'm so proud of you."

"You know he only stayed quiet because you were with him," John said as he came in with the tea tray. "He told me once that you calm his mind."

Molly looked back at Sherlock with a smile, warmed by that sentiment.

Sherlock was gazing out the window into the street. "Time has dark and water overflows." He groaned lightly as he rubbed at his head.

"He seems much calmer," observed Molly.

"He knows the case is solved," said John, pouring the two of them some tea.

Molly nodded, staring at Sherlock as he looked down at his hands and inspected them, mumbling to himself.

John set the cups of tea on the table. "What is it?"

Molly hesitated before looking over at him, tears forming in her eyes. "What if something went wrong? Drugs can have permanent side effects. What if he's never really himself again?"

John placed his hands over hers. "We'll get him back. I mean, it's Sherlock. He's the most stubborn git I know."

Molly laughed as she wiped her tears away.

"I can't see the stars," Sherlock blurted out suddenly.

John and Molly smiled as they looked over at Sherlock, who was holding his hands up in front of his face.

"Come on," said Molly, picking up a biscuit from the tray and holding it up in front of him. "How about a biscuit?"

* * *

The next day, Lestrade came to visit and check on Sherlock's progress.

"How is he?" asked Lestrade as Sherlock stood in front of the bookshelves, randomly taking books off and putting them back in a different spot.

"The same," said John, watching his friend. "It'll probably take a few more days before he's recovered. He was exposed to a lot of the drug. Molly, on the other hand, has only had a couple slip-ups, and she should be detoxed in the next day or so."

Lestrade nodded. "Good."

"I just keep thinking about Fieldson," said John. "He was left with Sherlock for three days before Molly came home. He could've killed him at any time, but he chose to drug him and put him through that hell."

"Sherrinford," Sherlock blurted out, looking back and forth between the two books in his hands.

John and Lestrade glanced over at him for a moment.

"You didn't know, John," Lestrade told him, looking back at him. "Hell, _Mycroft_ didn't know."

"I know," said John. "Part of me just feels like I should have known he wasn't using drugs. I mean, yeah, he showed all the symptoms and his mind messing with his responses when I asked him…" He ran a hand over his face before giving Lestrade a despairing look. "He asked me for help, Greg." He paused before looking over at Sherlock. "The day Mycroft put his men in place at the flat, he asked me for help. I could see the desperation in his face as he said it." He looked back at Lestrade. "And a few days after that, he came tearing down the stairs, screaming for me. That must have been when he figured out it was Fieldson. He _screamed_ , Greg. I've never heard him like that before."

"Hey," said Lestrade. "Quit beating yourself up. It all worked out."

John shook his head. "When everyone else believed the newspaper gossip about Sherlock being a fake, I never did. And now…what if the drugs leave permanent damage? All because I didn't believe him."

"Molly," said Sherlock suddenly.

They looked up as Sherlock turned towards them, looking around the room. He then looked at John, and John noticed that some of the haze seemed to have cleared from his eyes.

"Molly?" he asked.

John stared at him for a moment before he pointed towards the kitchen. "She's cleaning the bedroom."

To his surprise, Sherlock turned and made his way in that direction. John and Lestrade looked at each other, staggered, and then stood and followed. Sherlock walked into the bedroom, where Molly was pulling dressing gowns out of the bureau with a pair of gloves on. She turned when she heard footsteps in the room.

Molly quickly tossed the dressing gowns into the corner, where she had assembled a pile of ruined bedding and dressing gowns, so that Sherlock wouldn't touch them. "Sherlock, hey."

Sherlock walked up to her. "Can the police spare a car for the funeral?"

Molly frowned at him, surprised by the question. Sherlock hadn't spoken to them directly in days. "What?"

"Can the police spare a car for the funeral?" Sherlock repeated more firmly.

Molly smiled when she realized that Sherlock was trying to ask something specific, meaning he was starting to become lucid once more. However, Sherlock apparently interpreted her smile as confirmation that his question had come out exactly as intended, and he smiled.

Molly placed a hand on his arm. "No, no, Sherlock, your words are still being jumbled."

Sherlock deflated a bit, his head lowering.

Molly placed her hand on his face, drawing his gaze back up. "But welcome back."

He smiled at her, and she reached up, giving him a kiss.

"See?" said Lestrade at the door, patting John on the shoulder. "He's getting better already."

* * *

Another two days passed while Sherlock recovered, his words slowly emerging through the gibberish. His in-frequent tremors and twitches had mostly subsided, and the random bursts of thoughts hadn't bothered him in days.

On the morning of the third day, John dropped Rosie off with Mrs. Hudson—whom he would have to buy a big gift for, for all the babysitting she had done the last week and a half—and made his way up to the flat. He found Molly cooking breakfast as Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, sorting through some notes.

He smiled at the domestic scene and moved toward the table. "Morning." He sat down adjacent to Sherlock.

"Morning, John," said Molly. "Breakfast?"

"Please," said John, looking over at Sherlock. "Good morning?"

"Please tell me I didn't talk like this," said Sherlock, tossing the papers onto the table. "It's complete nonsense."

John snatched the papers up and looked at them. Sherlock's handwriting scrawled across the page, his notes just as much gibberish as his speech had been. He smiled when he spotted the sentence: "Butterflies circle the universe in sparkles."

"You did," said John, looking up at him in amusement.

"Ugh!" Sherlock spat out. "I made notes all throughout my incapacitation—when I was able—on the effects of antipsychotic overdose, and now, they're useless!"

John looked up at Molly, shaking his head. "Sherlock Holmes. Never one to pass up an opportunity."

"And, no, you are _not_ replicating the experience to get accurate notes!" Molly told him as she set plates in front of them.

"For once, I do not need to be told," Sherlock assured her. "I never want to experience anything like that again." He picked up his fork. "What a truly terrifying feeling it is to slowly lose control over one's mind." He speared some food on the fork and began eating.

John's jaw clenched at the reminder, and he looked down at his plate. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked up at him, speaking between bites. "What for?"

John looked up, the guilt plain on his face. "I left him alone with you. For three days! You told me you weren't using drugs—you asked me for help, for Christ's sake! And I just assumed the worst. I should have known something was wrong."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before setting his fork down. "Are you somehow under the impression that you've replaced me as world's only consulting detective?"

John couldn't help the smile that slowly appeared on his face. "No."

"Then you did nothing wrong," Sherlock told him. "You **did** know something was wrong, but my symptoms and past behavior led you to the obvious conclusion. You couldn't have known that one of Mycroft's men was poisoning me. Mycroft didn't know. _I_ didn't even know it was him until I saw him putting the aerosol can back into his pocket. Fieldson had studied my brother and I for years. He fooled two of the most brilliant minds in England. You didn't stand a chance."

"Gee, thanks," muttered John, hesitating a moment. "But what if you have permanent side effects?"

"Then I shall enjoy teaching myself how to be a detective once again," said Sherlock, going back to his food. "Should be a unique experience." He gave them a cheeky smile.

John let out a chuckle, secretly relieved that Sherlock held no hard feelings towards him.

"Besides, you **did** save me," Sherlock told him. He looked over at Molly as she sat with her own plate. "Both of you." He reached his hand forward to grasp hers. "You always see me when no one else does. You knew I was still in there. You saved my life." He leaned forward and gave her a kiss, smiling at her.

"As did you, John," Sherlock went on, turning back to his friend. "You were the one who figured out what code I was trying to use. If it wasn't for you, the guilty party wouldn't have been found out. Thank you."

Molly smiled and stood, kissing Sherlock on the cheek. "I'm just glad you're back. I missed you." She turned and headed over to the counter to fetch to kettle as it started to boil.

Sherlock looked over at John, lowering his voice to a low whisper. "Molly never saw the cipher, did she?"

"Don't worry," John whispered back. "Both it and the ring are safe in my flat."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "Can you rent me a violin for tonight? It'll take too long to repair mine."

"Tonight?" asked John in surprise. "Really?" He glanced up as Molly came over to pour them tea. He immediately straightened back up with a nod at Sherlock.

"So, going to jump back into cases?" asked Molly.

"Definitely," replied Sherlock as he turned back to his breakfast. "My mind has been out of practice for far too long."

"Mind if we join you?" asked John. "Could use a little excitement after this week."

Knowing that this was absolute rubbish—they wanted to tag along to make sure he was back to proper working order—he chose to ignore the motive. "The more, the merrier. Could need an assistant, after all."

"Well, then…" John took a bite of his toast and stood, going to the sitting room and fetching Sherlock's laptop. Settling back down at the table, he powered it up and typed in the password, frowning. "It isn't working."

"Ah, right," said Sherlock, standing. "Fearing that the culprit had staged the first murder simply to get to me, I believe I changed the password." He stepped up behind John's chair and leaned over him—John pushing himself against the back of the chair and giving Molly a disgruntled look, to which she covered her mouth to stifle the laughter. But he also frowned after entering it. "That doesn't make sense. This is the password I always use when I suspect surveillance." He then straightened. "Oh, damn."

"What?" asked Molly.

"Clearly evidenced by the notes I kept and the bedroom wall scratches I made, my speech was not the only communication method impeded by the drugs," muttered Sherlock. "Who know what I typed in."

"Try 'Molly,'" said John.

Sherlock frowned and looked down at him. "What?"

"Well, by the time you would have changed your password, you would have been aware how your words were being affected," John explained. "And no matter how bad it got, Molly was the one thing you were always clear-headed about."

Sherlock frowned at him a moment longer, looked up at Molly and then bent back over John's shoulder and typed the name. The corner of his mouth tilted upwards as he straightened and looked at Molly again. "Nicely observed, John." He moved back to his seat.

John pulled up Sherlock's email, browsing through them. "Hmm, quite a few." He clicked through the list. "Missing wedding ring…"

"Boring," muttered Sherlock, taking a bite of toast.

"Grandfather's inheritance hidden in his house…" read John.

"Who cares," said Sherlock.

"Little girl lost her cat…" John listed off, "a credit card stolen nine times in a row…a bloke being stalked by—"

"Wait, go back," said Sherlock. "The card."

John clicked on the email. "She says her card has been hacked nine times now. She's taken all sorts of security measures, but somehow, erroneous charges keep appearing on her bill. She has kept the last three cards in a locked case in her purse and never lets anyone but her handle it, and it's still getting hacked." He looked up at Sherlock. "Sounds like she's the only one that could be making these charges. Some sort of multiple personality disorder?"

"Don't be ridiculous," muttered Sherlock. He placed his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers together. After a moment, he lowered them to his breakfast once more. "Set up a meeting tomorrow."

"Right," said John, turning back to the computer to type a response.

* * *

Molly stepped into the sitting room, pulling her scarf off. "Well, that was different."

Sherlock closed the door behind her. "In what way?"

"You don't usually take me out for a nice dinner like that," she told him. "I mean, not that I'm complaining. Our jobs keep us pretty busy. And you're just not that kind of a guy. And I like that, I really do—"

"Molly…" Sherlock admonished with a smile, holding his hands up.

Molly smiled as she turned to let Sherlock help her with her coat. "I just mean, it was nice."

Sherlock hung her coat and scarf up on the door, removing his own as well. "Well, I should hope so." He hung his Belstaff and scarf next to her coat and turned back to her. "It is a rather special night, after all."

Molly frowned a little. "It is?"

"Mm, very," said Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the waist of her fuscia evening dress.

Molly locked her hands behind his neck. "It's not Valentine's Day…"

"No," said Sherlock, smiling at her.

"It's not an anniversary," said Molly.

"No, it isn't," said Sherlock. "Not yet."

Molly frowned. "Yet?"

"Did you not wonder why I was experimenting with a musical cipher?" asked Sherlock. He then moved out of her embrace and retrieved a piece of paper from the table. He handed it to her and then picked up his violin and bow, beginning to play.

The piece was beautiful, melodic and full of longing. Sherlock looked up to see her watching him, and his eyes moved down to the paper in her hand. She glanced down at the paper to see that it was a sheet of music titled: _Will You?_ Underneath the title was the cipher: the diagram of a musical note on the treble clef for each letter of the alphabet. A song had been composed below the cipher, and it must have been the song he was currently playing.

Smiling at the eccentricity that she loved so much, Molly set to work decoding the composition.

" _I said once that love was false, specious and irrational. Which just goes to show that even I can be wrong. I tried my whole life to distance myself from my emotions, believing they were nothing but a weakness. But you have proven me wrong. Your love has made me stronger. I could not imagine a life without your strength and light._

" _John once told me that romantic entanglement would complete me as a human being. And after all this time, I believe I have found my other half. But will my other half have me? Will you become the heart to my mind?_

" _Will you marry me, Molly?"_

Molly was only vaguely aware that the violin had stopped playing. Her jaw had dropped as she stared at this final line, going back over it to ensure she had translated it correctly.

"You did," said Sherlock from behind her, moving his hand into her view in front of the sheet of music.

Molly gasped. He was holding an open ring box in front of her. Inside sat a silver band with a diamond and two yellow sapphires on the top. Molly was speechless. She knew the kind of person Sherlock was and never expected him to want something as common as marriage. She was happy enough that he had even consented to a relationship in the first place and was content to spend the rest of their lives in such a manner. Now, not only did Sherlock also want this, he also wanted marriage? Something he had once called a "death-watch beetle"?

Sherlock stepped around in front of Molly, keeping the ring held up in front of her. "Your love has saved me many times over, and none more so than this week. You keep me sane, but more than that…you make me happy. And I don't know how I could have ever viewed you as a weakness."

Molly stared up at him, speechless.

Sherlock reached down for one of her hands, which had apparently dropped the paper at some point. "Will you save me once more? Will you be my wife?"

It was the look in his eyes that finally broke her out of her stupor. She reached up, placing her arms around his neck and kissing him enthusiastically. She broke away after a while, pulling him into a hug and laughing.

"I take it this is a 'yes,'" Sherlock laughed in her ear.

"Yes, it is," Molly told him, pulling back. "This is very much a 'yes.'"

Sherlock smiled and kissed her.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 **I get the feeling from several reviews that you all thought the story was over. It wasn't. This is the final chapter.**

* * *

"Well, congratulations," John was saying the next morning as they waited for their client. "I hope you are happy together."

"Thanks," said Molly, smiling down at the ring on her hand.

"And maybe this time, I can show you how a stag party is **supposed** to go," John told Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned. "Is not the purpose of a stag party for the groom-to-be to go out with his closest male friends, get pissed and make complete fools of themselves? I think we accomplished that rather nicely."

John shook his head, smiling. "There are usually more than just two people at a stag party. And it usually lasts longer."

"Then be my guest to 'show me how it's done,'" said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. He then pointed sternly at John. "But not Anderson."

"Oh, come on!" said John.

"I refuse to get drunk in front of that idiot," grumbled Sherlock.

"It's not like you know a lot of people enough to call them friends," John pointed out.

"Since when have Anderson and I been 'friends'?" exclaimed Sherlock.

"In your case, you have to redefine the word, and Anderson falls into that category," said John.

Sherlock looked away from John, his jaw clenched.

"I'll make sure he gets drunk before you do," said John in a resigned tone.

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. Finally, he looked back at him. "Fine."

A knock came at the door, and Molly stood to answer it. A woman of about twenty-five years of age stood on the landing.

"Hello, come on in," Molly told her, gesturing towards the dining chair set facing the fireplace.

As she moved towards the sofa where John sat, she looked over at Sherlock in his chair, who gazed up at her with a nervous glint in his eye. Molly gave him a reassuring smile and nod: _You'll do fine. I believe in you._

Sherlock looked back at the client as she sat in the chair. "Start from the beginning, Miss Clarens."

"Five months ago, I got my first credit card," the client began. "I do online banking, so I was checking my account a week after I had gotten it, and there were charges I didn't recognize. I sent for a new one, and somehow, the same thing happened. No matter what I did, someone was hacking into my account."

"Does anyone have access to your post?" asked Sherlock.

"No," Clarens answered. "You need your own key to get into the box. I asked my landlord to see security footage of the last time my card was delivered, but no one tried to get into it from the time the post was delivered and when I came home. Could it be someone at the post office?"

"Unlikely," said Sherlock. "It's more difficult to get card information from a sealed envelope than it is check information. And from the precautions you've taken, you would have noticed if the envelope had been opened and resealed."

Miss Clarens nodded.

"You mentioned a locked case you keep in your bag," said Sherlock.

"Yes," said Clarens, reaching into her purse and fishing out a metal case the size of a flask. She handed it over to him. "I keep the key on a chain around my neck." She pulled at said chain, showing him the key.

Sherlock's gaze left the key and narrowed in on the case, turning it over in his hands to study it.

"If anyone can figure this out, it has to be you," said Clarens. "I just…" She shook her head. "I was just so excited to finally have a card." She hurriedly pulled her mobile out and unlocked it. "I mean, I told all my friends about it! See?" She pulled something up on her phone and turned it around to show him.

Sherlock's eyes shot over to the phone disinterestedly and back to the case. He then immediately looked back at the phone, staring at it. Setting the case on the arm of his chair, he snatched the phone from her hand and scrolled through whatever he was looking at. He then stared down at the screen unblinkingly, his face unreadable.

John began to get worried. This was exactly what Sherlock looked like when he couldn't figure something out. This case didn't seem like a particularly difficult one, and yet, Sherlock was stumped. Could the drugs have permanently affected him?

John looked over at Molly, sharing her concerned frown, and back at Sherlock. Sherlock then raised his gaze up past the client to John and Molly, blinking rapidly as he seemed to struggle for words. Finally, he let out a breath and closed his eyes.

"So, let me see if I follow this correctly," Sherlock began slowly. He looked up at Miss Clarens, speaking even more slowly. "You posted a photo of your credit cards on Facebook…"

John blinked, taken aback. Was that what had been on her phone? Surely that couldn't be it. Who would do something like that?

"…you gave out the CVV codes from the signature strip when asked…" Sherlock continued, "and you want me to figure out how your card keeps getting hacked."

"Yes, exactly," said Clarens in relief. "It could only be someone at the card company, right? I mean, no one else has access to the accounts!"

Looking very much like he was restraining himself from reaching over and smacking this woman upside the head, Sherlock's gaze swept over to John and Molly, who were both covering their mouths as they nearly rolled about on the couch in silent laughter. Sherlock sent them a look that clearly said: _You're not helping._

Sherlock gave a sharp inhale as he gathered the metal case and phone together. "Well, you're in luck. I have indeed found the problem." He held the items out to her.

"You have?" asked Clarens, her face lighting up as she took the items.

"Yes," said Sherlock, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands together. "You."

Clarens froze with her items in hand, frowning. "Me?"

"You posed a photo with your card number on it for the world to see, and as if that wasn't stupid enough, you gave away the security code when asked," said Sherlock. "You then proceeded to do this another eight times, and you don't know who is stealing your card?"

"But I have the card," said Clarens in confusion, holding the case up. "They can't use the number without the card. I didn't lose the card."

Sherlock stared at her in speechless shock while John and Molly tried not to laugh.

"You said you do online banking," said Sherlock. "I assume you shop online as well."

"Of course," said Clarens.

"And does your card magically deliver itself to the vendor so they can insert it into their machine and then send it back to you?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, of course not," said Clarens. "I enter the numbers into the…computer…" Her face fell as it sunk in.

"There it is," said Sherlock, raising his arm and pointing towards the door. "Get out."

They waited for the woman to gather her things and get out the front door. John and Molly looked over at Sherlock, and the three of them promptly burst into laughter.

"What an idiot," laughed Sherlock.

"I usually intervene when you start to lay into them, but I think she needed the wake-up call," said John, wiping away the tears.

"Nine times!" laughed Molly. "She did that _nine times_ and didn't even realize it!"

"How did she not see it?" asked John, looking over at Sherlock. "Is this how you feel when the police can't solve 'simple' cases?"

"Yes, it's maddening," said Sherlock, pulling his laptop from the table and opening it. "I'll need another case to test me. That one was useless."

"Ooh-hoo!" greeted Mrs. Hudson as she stepped into the doorway. "John, I—"

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed Sherlock, setting the laptop down none too gently on the floor. "Excellent!" He planted his elbows on his armrests and placed his hands together, staring silently at her.

Mrs. Hudson watched him for a moment before glancing over at the other two. "What's he doing?"

"He's trying to see if the drugs interfered with his deductive reasoning," John told her with an amused smile.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock watched her another moment longer before lowering his hands. "You've just put Rosie down for a nap after her lunch, during which she threw a fit. You changed the sheets on your bed this morning, where you discovered a bit of mold growing from a long-ago spilled cup of tea. You purchased a new mattress to be delivered sometime today and require John's help moving the old one." He narrowed his eyes once more. "And you received a letter from your sister today." He raised his head slightly. "How did I do?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled and shook her head at the rapid deductions.

"No, seriously, how did I do?" asked Sherlock. "I need feedback."

"Correct about everything, as always," Mrs. Hudson told him.

"Superb," said Sherlock, pushing himself up onto his feet and striding towards the kitchen. "John, find me a case!"

"I thought I was going to help Mrs. Hudson!" John called through the doorway.

"Then get on with it!" Sherlock called back, settling down at his microscope.

John looked over at Molly, smiling. "Oh, yeah. He's going to be just fine."

* * *

"Look who's here!"

Sherlock turned to see John in the doorway with Rosie in his arms.

"Unca Sherock!" Rosie exclaimed, her arms stretching towards him.

Sherlock smiled as he set the case file on the table and walked over to them. "Hello, Rosie." He took the girl into his arms as John passed her over.

Rosie collapsed against Sherlock's chest, wrapping her little arms around him (well, as far as they could go). "Daddy say you sick."

"I was," Sherlock told her as he used his free hand to rub her back in comfort. "But I'm all better now."

Rosie sniffled a little. "Make Unca Sherock better." She tightened her hold on the front of his shirt.

Sherlock looked up at John.

"She's been upset practically since this whole thing started," John told him. "She's not used to not seeing you for so long. And then, she got hysterical when I told her you'd been sick."

Sherlock looked down at Rosie, who still hadn't moved. He looked up at John. "Looks like she'll be with me for a while."

John smiled. "Looks like." He moved over to his armchair, looking up at the wall. "Got a case?"

"If you can call it that," said Sherlock, striding over and picking up the case file. "Robert Porter calls the police time and time again, claiming to be haunted." He handed the file to John as the doctor sat down. "He wakes up to find that furniture has been rearranged. Meals suddenly appear ready on the table after work. The smell of perfume lingers in the house." He turned and sat in his armchair, holding Rosie close.

"Some woman broke in?" asked John, looking up from his perusal of the file. "A stalker?"

"No. Not a single person broke into the place."

"Then who's doing all of this?"

Sherlock smirked. "Robert."

John frowned.

"Or, rather, Robert's alter-ego Regina," Sherlock went on.

John leaned back, cocking his head to the side in disbelief. "No way."

"Robert blacks out, and Regina takes over," Sherlock elaborated. "She cleans, rearranges the furniture, cooks. And, of course, that's why he could never get away from the smell of perfume: he was wearing it."

"Multiple personality disorder…" muttered John. "That's extremely rare. Wish I could've seen that."

Sherlock had already been reaching into his jacket pocket and now tossed his phone lightly over to John. "I filmed one of his 'episodes.' You're welcome."

John held up the phone, fixing him with a hard look. "You know, most people might find that rude. Not to mention, client confidentiality."

"It was proof," Sherlock explained. "For Robert."

John looked down at the phone. "Oh."

"I only kept it because it's a rare psychological condition, and I knew a doctor such as yourself would take a professional interest," said Sherlock. He waved his hand at him vaguely. "Feel free to delete it once you're done."

John smiled, shaking his head. "Always so thoughtful."

"There's a word I never would have used to describe my brother," said Mycroft from the doorway.

"Mycroft," greeted John, turning towards him. "I thought you'd still be dealing with Fieldson."

"Fieldson has just been shipped off to Sherrinford, where he will enjoy a lovely little cell next to Eurus," Mycroft answered.

Sherlock smiled. "I hope he hates the violin."

"I believe he will learn to," said Mycroft. "Apparently, there's been a technical malfunction. The speakers in his cell have been inexplicably connected to the microphones in Eurus'. And they also won't turn off. None of the staff have been successful in correcting the error. It's really quite baffling."

John chuckled. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock. "I trust everything is functioning properly?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock told him. "Fire your new assistant. She's cooking the books."

Mycroft's mouth tilted in a small smirk. "Yes, I know." He took in a big breath. "Well, I'll not keep you." He turned to leave.

"Actually, I do have something that might interest you," said Sherlock, standing and moving over to the table as he situated Rosie onto his hip. He picked up a file and stepped up to Mycroft, handing it to him.

Mycroft held up the file. "What is this?"

Sherlock gave a shrug and went back to his armchair. "Just a news story from several years back. You no doubt missed it at the time." He sat down again as Rosie finally let him go. He eased her onto the floor, where she toddled around, investigating the room.

John, meanwhile, was trying to hold back an amused smile as he began to realize what Sherlock was up to.

Mycroft watched Sherlock for a moment before opening the file. His eyes skimmed over the small headline that read: "Diana's Cousin Marries Barrister." He looked up at Sherlock. "Why would Prince William and Harry's first cousin once removed concern me?"

"Oh, I thought you might recognize the name of the groom," said Sherlock.

Mycroft looked back at the article to find the name. "Brandon Mueller." He looked up at Sherlock, now beginning to show some exasperation. "And why would I know this name?"

Sherlock nodded to the file. "I took the liberty of pulling up his family tree."

Mycroft pulled the other piece of paper out, and the two men waited while his eyes quickly searched it. After a few moments, his eyes froze on a particular name, and he looked up at John, his eyes wide.

"Don't worry," said John, nodding at him and holding back his laughter. "I promise not to tell the Queen."

It had been a living hell the last two weeks, but seeing the look on Mycroft's face as he realized he had kidnapped Prince William's—soon to be King William's—third cousin-in-law once removed on multiple occasions, Sherlock thought it was all worth it.

* * *

 **THE END!**


End file.
